Lost Years Ep 01: The Joy Machine
by Soledad
Summary: The first adventure of Captain Kirk's second five year mission: why has been the contact to the Federation colony Thimsel broken? The answer is more sinister than they would believe.
1. Prologue

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

**Disclaimer: **The context and the characters of the Original Star Trek series belong to Gene Roddenberry and whoever keeps the rights right now. Battlestar Galactica belongs to Glen A. Larsen and Universal Studios, as do all the characters which appear in the show. None of these settings or characters are wholly original, and I'm not making any money off of them.

**WARNING: **These stories had originally been written bilinguically: narrative in Hungarian, dialogues in German. I'm trying to translate them into acceptable English, but there might be misspellings and some grammatical weirdness. If they really bother you that much, I gladly accept offers for beta-reading.

**Author's notes: **"The Joy Machine" is based on a never realized first season story idea by Theodore Surgeon. There is also an official Trek novel based on that script – trust me, mine is very different. Especially since I've written it before even reading that novel. This "episode" is posted in the _Start Trek – The Original Series_ section, because the main focus is on the Trek crew.

To learn more about the "Lost Years" series, read the Introducton to the series' pilot, "Crossroads", posted to the _Battlestar Galactica_ (original series) page.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

It was early spring in the year 2271 in Earth reckoning, but nobody in Munguroo really cared for how time outside their home was counted. What mattered was that the great feast of Spring Equinox was already over. The people in the village lived their lives and did their work in a rhythm that was older than either Earth or Federation reckoning. A rhythm that was naturally coded in their very genes.

Nyota Uhura, who wore a Starfleet uniform and the rank of a lieutenant commander in the outside world, walked barefooted on the stomped dirt path that led to the temple area – although in the opposite direction. He was heading towards the flat-roofed white limestone house of his family, a house that branched out into every direction like a labyrinth. This house had grown with the clan through the centuries ever since Nyota Kahama, the First Mother, had begun to build it. For outsiders, it looked like a confusing maze, but no small child had ever got lost in it since the clan had been founded. It was their home.

Well, actually... Uhura smiled and adjusted the folds of the brightly coloured, hand-woven cloth that she had wrapped around herself like the Hindu women their _sari_s. Yes, there was one who still managed to get lost in the house. But he was an adopted member of the clan, so nobody took offence at it. Who could be angry with Imaro, the Dark Flame, who had come from the dark and cold space beyond the stars to bond with the Eldest Daughter of an Ancient Family?

Uhura quickened her steps a little, as she wanted to arrive home before Imaro's return. After a decade and a half of deep space duty, it was a strange thing to be responsible for such mundane tasks as housework, but she enjoyed it. It felt good to finally spend a longer time with the circle of her clan, to have enough time for Imaro, to perform her ritual duties in which her younger sister, Kamala had replaced her for so long... and to follow the development of her young daughter, Kimora, from day to day. And there was Kitharo, of course, the calm and proud Kitharo, Oulu's son, now grown into adulthood, whose paths within the clan she also had to even. To be a mother was a great responsibility among Uhura's people.

When Imaro had chosen _not_ to follow the other Colonial refugees who had found a new home in the newly-christened Kobol Sector, due to the generosity of the Federation, the clan accepted him and the barely nine thousand survivors of his people with open arms. The Libran people settled in an abandoned Bantu village, with the intention to move to the new planet designed to them as soon as their numbers had grown sufficiently. But Imaro hadn't joined them, either. He followed Uhura to Munguroo and asked her, before the presence of all the Mothers, to accept him as her life-mate.

Uhura, firstborn daughter of the Wise Women, the guardians of ancient lore among the clan, was now climbing the flat, sometimes broken limestone steps that led to the central building of the Great House slowly, thoughtfully. This was her home – the home of every First Daughter, regardless if they walked the paths of the jungle or that of the stars. In the basin of the anteroom, a basin covered with a colourful mosaic of small ceramic tiles, the water was gleaming softly, invitingly. She let her brightly coloured shroud fall to the floor and submerged into the ritual bath, as tradition demanded after visiting the temple. Her adolescent niece, Yva, whose education she had taken over since her return, appeared wordlessly between the columns of the anteroom with a rough linen towel to rub him dry after leaving the basin.

"Visitors have called from the outside world, _kiha_," she then said.

Uhura wrapped the shroud around herself again. "Really? Who?"

"A young woman. She said her name was Masters. She called from Mars."

"Charlene? Didn't she leave any message?"

"She did, _kiha_. She said you should call her back in the central spaceport of _Malacandra_... and that the great sky vessel is ready to leave."

"The _Enterprise_?" Uhura gave a low whistle. "They must have been busy like bees in the drydock. Well, with Scotty breathing down their necks, that's not a surprise."

Yva shrugged, barely visible. "She didn't say _that_."

"It wasn't necessary," Uhura smiled. "Has Imaro returned home already?"

"Not yet, _kiha_. And Kitharo asked me to excuse him for tonight. He's gone to the village of the new brethren; he'll probably stay the night."

"Very well," Uhura nodded, "we'll be only four for dinner, then. Would you prepare food before Imaro returns?"

"Of course, _kiha_."

Yva hurried over to the kitchen, and Uhura went back into the large bedroom of her home, a room with a spacious veranda adjoining it. This wide and airy room has been furnished in traditional style: hand-carved dance masks hung on the walls, among old weapons and woven hangings that showed hunting scenes. The stomped dirt floor was covered with rare animal skins, and on the nicely carved, broad and low wooden benches that run around the entire room, there were silk pillows in bright colours. However, discretely hidden behind a curtain in one corner, there was also the most sophisticated computer terminal available for private households, linked to a subspace radio. Both pieces of modern equipment were necessary for a high-ranking Starfleet officer and for a diplomat like Imaro who represented the Twelve Colonies during negotiations with Starfleet.

Uhura automatically righted the totemistic figurine of her ancestors on the low ebony table that was given a particularly rustic look by the fact that the wood carver left the rough bark on the outer side, and she crunched up on the sofa, pulling up her legs.

The time of waiting was over, it seemed. The _Enterprise_ had been completely overhauled. Of course, Charlene Masters, who lived on Mars and was nominally counted among the engineering crew, could follow the work in the Utopia Planitia shipyards a lot better, but Uhura knew that the next five-year-mission was just about to launch. Her disposition was still the _Enterprise_. She had served aboard five years under Christopher Pike, than another five under the command of James T. Kirk. Spock, Scotty and herself… only three were left from the old crew.

She shivered a little. No, not three, only two now. Spock had quit the Fleet and had been first the head of the Vulcan Academy of Sciences (rumour said he had even been betrothed to a Vulcan woman for a short time). But after that, he'd unexpectedly vanished in the desert of Gol, among the _kolinahr_-adepts, and was never heard of ever since.

Uhura tried to imagine the bridge without Spock but failed. Spock simply belonged there, during the beautiful years of their subdued friendship, when they had not only shared duty, danger and adventure, but also poetry and music… and some bitter secrets of their souls nobody else had been privy to. It had been a friendship strong enough to endure even the disappointments.

But Spock had left for the Masters of Gol to try forging together his dual nature by shier force, and the bridge, the starship, yes, the entire universe would be strangely empty without him. Uhura knew that even though she would have Imaro's presence in her life, not even the closeness of a life-mate could fill the void left by the loss of such an intense friendship.

Uhura let a small sigh escape her lips, and taking the _ka'athyra_ that was hanging above her head on the wall, she allowed her fingers to glide across its strings in a distracted manner. This wondrously crafted Vulcan lute was a special gift from Spock to her at the end of their mission. The heartbreakingly beautiful, strangely harmonic accords slowly shaped themselves into the melody of a pre-Reformation Vulcan wedding song. The almost unbearable sweetness of the melody brought tears into her eyes. She played for herself only, for a long time, thoughtfully, until she felt the presence of another person.

She looked up and saw Sahel standing in the doorframe: the tall, slender, beautiful Sahel, with whom the Mothers once wanted to bond her, way back when she had still been serving under Captain Pike, because they had detected the dormant abilities of a prophet in the young repatriate. Sahel left Starfleet to serve the Temple, but their bond brought no children, although they had both proved fertile with other partners before. They separated in friendship and had remained friends ever since. In the meantime Sahel had bonded with one of Uhura's sisters, which helped to keep the closeness between them. In Munguroo, that was considered a natural thing.

"Am I disturbing you?" Sahel asked in that deep, mellow voice of his.

Uhura shook her head, smiling. "Of course not, _amuntu_! Come on in!"

Sahel followed the invitation. In his widely cut, long and colourful robe he moved around with the natural grace of a Temple dancer, his thick, curly hair crowned his beautiful head like dark flames. In her entire life, Uhura had only met two men who could be called literally beautiful, without being effeminated. Imaro was the other one.

"I heard the _Enterprise_ is ready to leave," he said, sitting down on the other side of the table. Uhura smiled.

"I should have known that you'd hear about it before I would," she replied; although he had left Starfleet almost a decade ago, Sahel still remained in touch with some of his former colleagues.

"Pavel Andreievich called yesterday," respecting Russian custom, Sahel always addressed Chekov by both his given name and his father-name. "He spent the last days of his leave in Vladivostok, with his cousin Pavi. There he got the call that his name had been shortened by two letters."

"Which two letters?" Uhura inquired; Sahel's little jokes had been a welcome refreshment for her, since the long-gone days of their short-lived engagement.

"J and G," Sahel replied, and their both laughed.

"If anyone deserved a promotion, Chekov certainly did," Uhura commented. "Instead of enjoying planetary assignment for a while, he enrolled a second training course. Not many would be that dedicated."

"It was his own gain, after all," Sahel answered thoughtfully. "Few people can say that they are the Chief of Security aboard a _Constitution_-class starship."

"So, he did get the job, after all?" Uhura raised her hand with a gesture that expressed surprise and joy. "That's fantastic! But who'll be the chief navigator aboard the _Enterprise_ then?"

"Not even I can know everything," Sahel laughed. "But if the refitting of the _Enterprise_ is in fact finished, your orders must be arriving, soon. Are you looking forward to the start?"

"Yes and no," Uhura replied carefully. "I'm glad to return to duty, soon, moreso that Imaro will be coming with us... "

"Have you got the official permission?"

"Admiral Nogura signed a contract with Fleet Commander Adama; a contract which allows Imaro to travel with us as a diplomatic observer of the Twelve Worlds. He even might choose a staff of three from the former crew of the _Galactica_. The details are being worked out at Headquarters in San Francisco right now."

"That's good. What's the other side of the coin?"

"Kimora," Uhura said quietly, "and this here... all of it. As long as I worked far away from Earth, I haven't even realized how much I was missing my roots. You know how young I was when I left home, barely more than a child, and I never could come back for longer than for quick visits."

"Now however," Sahel added with that thoughtful smile of his, "you've spent enough time here for your long-slumbering connection to the Temple, haven't you?"

"That's true," Uhura replied in surprise. "How can you know that?"

Sahel shrugged.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he said. "You, the Eldest Daughter of an Old Family, left the Temple to reach out to the stars, and you've forgotten that what you were looking for has in a sense always been here, and here only: the roots, the same spiritual heritage that had called you away from here in the first place. I, on the other hand, am just a reintegrated son of the cult; I don't even know which clan my ancestors belonged when they were taken by force and dragged over the Sea to become slaves. But after long, tiresome years of searching, I finally found my way home, and it's I now who guards the threshold of the Temple. When I joined Starfleet Security, I certainly didn't think that I'd end up as a prophet."

"Have you ever regretted giving up the stars?" Uhura asked quietly. Sahel shook his head with a peaceful smile.

"The stars are always with me, _amuntu_. When I look up from the anteroom of the Temple to the skies in clear nights, I can call them by their names. I know the light of which ones nurture the many different people on Federation planets. My place, though, is here. Should the Visitors return one day, this place will be ready to welcome them, as it has always been ready. My duty is to keep the hearts of our people awake in joyful expectation."

He rose from the sofa. "I have to go now, _amuntu_. Aretha won't return home before the day after tomorrow, and I've promised her to spend some time with the children."

"Have dinner with us," Uhura offered, but Sahel shook his head.

"The pleasantries of the outside world would be misplaced here, Uhura. You're sharing your hearth with Imaro now."

"And yet you'll remain part of my life."

"As well as you'll remain part of mine, forever. But our bond has been ordered by the mothers and severed for the good of the clan. Imaro, you've chosen of your own will, out of love. He was the one who's built you the way home."

"He and the mercy of the Mothers," Uhura whispered sadly. Sahel raised his hand in a forbidding gesture.

"Leave the past to the past, Uhura! Live according your name!"

"I'll try," she replied slowly. But they both knew it won't be easy.

Sahel turned on his heels and left the room unhurriedly. At the same time, another man came through one of the side doors, and seeing him, Uhura rose to greet him.

"Imaro... welcome home."

Imaro, known for the databases of the Federation and the allied Kobol-colonies as Colonel Tigh, was barely older than Sahel, but his thick mane was interwoven with silver already, and the memories of old pain had drawn deep lines around his wide, generous mouth and in the corners of his large eyes. Although a good head shorter than the now leaving prophet, he didn't seem dwarfed by Sahel. His well-built body, the emanation of his strong personality made up for his small frame. His disciplined, economical movements revealed that he'd spent the majority of his life in tiny cockpits; the few years in Munguroo couldn't override those old instincts yet.

"_Amuntu_," he said, using the local expression, and embraced his wife who snuggled up to him in utter devotion. Their quickly inflamed love had gradually deepened and strengthened during the recent years spent in a traditional bonding, and the birth of their first child had made them even more part of each other's lives.

"What's news in the outside world?" Uhura asked.

Imaro shrugged off his long travelling cloak whose wide sleeves had more decorative than practical purposes and threw it onto one of the sofas. Underneath he was wearing a colourful tunic and white trousers as it was customary for his people.

"I've spoken with Admiral Nogura," he said. "He will keep his word, albeit not entirely without trepidation. I've threatened him that otherwise the _Quorum of Twelve_ would delegate _Sire_ Uri as its representative on the negotiations with the Federation.

"The Old Man is not easy to intimidate," Uhura commented soberly. An interview in Nogura's office was the living nightmare of every Starfleet officer.

"I know," Imaro nodded, "but he's a good judge of character. I think he realized that I'd be capable of sitting in front of his office for weeks, if necessary."

"You would?" Uhura teased.

"If the stakes are high enough, yes," he replied, unsmiling. "I spent most of my life on warships, save the last couple of years here on Earth; it's time for me to do some peaceful exploration. What about you? Have your orders arrived yet?"

Uhura shook her head. "Not officially," she said, "but Charlene Masters called on an interplanetary channel while I was in the Temple. She might have heard something. Let's have dinner, Yva must be done by now. There's no use to guess. Starfleet Command has never been late with dispositions.

"I don't doubt it," Imaro said. "But what will Captain Kirk say to my presence on his ship?"

"He won't be happy," Uhura prophesied. "Everyone knows how allergic he is to diplomats, save perhaps Sarek of Vulcan, and he probably won't like the fact that your staff is supposed to be on regular duty, either."

"Why? It's only three people!"

"True, but he won't have one hundred per cent control over them. Rigel and Boomer might be under his command while on duty, but they are still _your_ navigator and _your_ pilot. And Cassiopeia isn't even in Starfleet."

"Admiral Nogura asked Cassiopeia to take over running the _rec deck_," Imaro told her, while they were heading the dining room, arm in arm. "He wants to unburden the personnel officer a little."

"That won't make Captain Kirk happy, either," Uhura guessed. "But Nancy Wong certainly will welcome any help she can get. Keeping four hundred and thirty… no, five hundred crew in good mood isn't an easy task, especially as they belong to half a dozen different species."

"Cassiopeia is practically predestined for this job, due to her training," Imaro said. "For my part, I'm glad that New-Gemini sends her to be my assistant. I'm not a natural born diplomat, as you know."

"That's one of the reasons why I love you," she said bluntly.

They lowered themselves onto the small ebony stools that had very high, carved backs, and young Yva served dinner, which had been cooked in earthenware pots, on the colourful mat spread on the floor. Although the people of Munguroo didn't reject modern technology on principle, they didn't use food synthesizers. Every dish was cooked in the traditional way – the only allowance was to use modern fuel, to spare the trees and the environment.

Yva had cooked a popular dish: sweet corn with beans and tomatoes, after which she served a couscous and palm wine. Imaro, who still couldn't get used to the strange taste of _mimbo_, barely took a sip.

"This is the only thing I hate here," he said, "this disgusting booze."

Uhura exchanged a smile with her niece.

"The consummation of _mimbo_ is an acquired taste," she said, amused. "After a few decades you'll learn to appreciate it for the spiritual experience it is."

"You see, flame-hearted, that is why I don't mind to remain an underdeveloped barbarian," the man replied calmly.

"Don't let her tease you; I think I won't get used to _mimbo_, either, and should I live a thousand years. Besides, mother feels the same way. She just likes to see you squirm."

Turning towards the door, they saw Kitharo, Uhura's sixteen-year-old son from Oulu, entering the dining room. He kneeled in front of his mother, according to custom, to greet her. He was small and limber, just like his mother, and their profiles bore a striking resemblance, too. But Kitharo's much darker skin, thick lips and large, expressive eyes were an inheritance from his father. Sometimes Uhura found it almost painful to look at him. No matter how happy she was with Imaro, the years spent with Oulu on Two Twilights, years full of agonizing passion and the all-too-present awareness that their parting had been imminent, no time in the world could have erased from her mind.

"I thought you'd spend the day in the village of the new brethren," she said, touching her son's face, signalling that he can rise.

"That was the plan," the youngling sat down next to his mother, "but since you're leaving, soon, I thought I'd rather spend some time with you. Can't I go to San Francisco with you? I'd like to see the _Enterprise_ again."

"I'm afraid not," Uhura said, regretting to have to disappoint her son. "This is not the _Enterprise_ you used to know, my son, and neither are the people who used to serve on her twelve years ago."

Kitharo nodded. "I know. It's just… I envy you a little. It's been ten years since I was out among the stars for the last time."

"That's a path that stands open before you," Imaro said. "If you join Starfleet…"

The youngling shook his head. "No, that's not my way. The Fleet binds the hands of its members in thousand different ways. My wings would be cut there. No, I'd like to fly freely."

"And you intend to reach that goal… how exactly?" his mother asked.

Kitharo hesitated for a moment. "One of the Ibo tribes has founded a far-away colony, in the neighbourhood of _Two Twilights_," he replied carefully. "It's called Harare and has some ten to fifteen thousand inhabitants. After finishing my studies – and the initiation – I'd like to move there. Do you object?"

"It's your life, Kitharo," his mother answered thoughtfully. "If you think Harare is the place where you'd like to live, I won't stand in your way. I only ask you to check out that world very carefully before making your final move."

"Of course, mother. I know the risks. And it's a long way between Harare and Earth."

"Have you already chosen a field for your studies?" Imaro asked. The youngling nodded.

"The Agricultural Faculty. Harare is a pioneer world; they need well-trained agronomists with a minor in xenobiology."

"And what about the dance college?" Uhura asked. "You've already finished four semesters; wouldn't it be a shame to waste that? On a new world like Harare that has only existed for a few decades, tradition is even more important than at home."

"I won't quit it," Kitharo replied, "but I'll continue on an individual schedule."

"Ah," his mother said. "May I ask how?"

"Dr. Anekwe, the renowned Ibo music historian has started courses on the Agricultural faculty last year," Kitharo explained. "I contacted him four days ago, and he agreed to accept us, I mean Abiru and me, as his private students."

"So Abiru is going with you?" Uhura asked. According to the mutual agreement between the two families, Abiru and Kitharo had been betrothed for years. "And has her family agreed to let her move to Harare?"

"It wasn't easy," her son admitted. "But in the end, Abiru isn't a firstborn daughter; neither are her older sisters planning to leave Africa."

"In that case, however, she needs to choose a profession that is useful for Harare," Imaro warned him. "A pioneer world won't be able to afford the luxury of sponsoring professional artists for quite a while yet. Have you thought of that?"

The youngling nodded. "Yes, we've planned it all out."

"And what kind of solution did you find?"

"Abiru is going to study alternate medicine; something that works on a foreign world without modern hospitals. And a little botany, because of the healing herbs. But first she'll finish art school – she only has one more year left."

"That would be a sin for her to quit," Uhura agreed. "I never heard anyone play the _kissar_ as she does."

"I have," her son replied, "but that person quit her music when I was seven years old."

Uhura gave him a pale, somewhat sad smile. "I didn't do it voluntarily; well, at least not eagerly. But after your homecoming, my experimental post has been deleted from the space exploration program for good, and as chief of communications, I simply had too much technical stuff to handle."

"That wasn't meant as an accusation, mother. I'm just sorry that you've wasted your talent, that's all."

"Not entirely. How many human musicians can say of themselves that they can play the Vulcan _ka'athyra_ on the same level as I do?"

"It's not the same, mother, and you know that."

"Of course not," Uhura nodded. "But had I chosen my music instead of the stars, I'd never have met Imaro. And that would be a much greater loss, don't you think?"

Kitharo remained silent for a moment. "For you, it would," he finally said. "But not for the Temple, I think."

"Kitharo!" Uhura stared at her son, scandalized, and felt as if someone had rammed a blunt knife into her heart.

Kitharo made an apologetic gesture. "Don't take this as a personal affront, Imaro, because it is none. But you have no idea what my mother was capable of, back then, when she was still actively studying sacral music. The Temple hasn't had a singer of her format for fifteen generations – _if_ she had finished her training, that is – and it's hard to tell when another such talent will be born among us. Abiru is very gifted, but she can't even be mentioned in the same sentence with mother."

Imaro, who'd had the privilege to enjoy Abiru's wondrous music and singing, looked at his wife with newfound respect. "I never thought I'd be worth such a sacrifice," he said quietly.

"I haven't given up my music for _you_," Uhura pointed out. "But should the choice be demanded from me today, I'd choose you nevertheless. Finding you was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I won't give you up for anything or anyone."

She rose, without the aid of her hands, and the two males automatically followed suit. It would have been unseeming for them to remain seated.

"What now?" Imaro asked.

"I need to call Charlene Masters on Mars," Uhura said. "Are you coming with me? Perhaps Captain Boomer will be there, too."

"That would be fortunate," Imaro agreed. "I haven't spoken to him for quite some time."

* * *

Charlene Masters, a Warp-specialist and docent of the _Pallas University_ on Mars, if possible, looked even younger than a good two years earlier when the _Enterprise_ had been taken into the Utopia Planitia Shipyards' drydock. The asymmetrically cut, brightly coloured dress – the latest fashion on Mars – left her right shoulder bare. Her intricately carved sandalwood earrings almost touched her shoulders. Together with her short-cropped hair, it was an… interesting look.

"I've just got my disposition," she told Uhura, "and Boomer has his okay from the Old Man, too."

"Do you know which department you'd be delegated to?"

"I'll go to Engineering, permanently," Masters grinned. "It's fine with me – who knows whom we're going to get instead of Mr. Spock. At least I've known Scotty for years, and we've always worked well together."

"What about you, Captain?" Imaro asked Boomer.

The good-natured, dark-skinned young man shrugged. "Before everything else, I'm your pilot, Colonel. Rigel and I have personally supervised the building of your courier ship. These warp-shuttles are a brand new construction from Vulcan; they can accelerate up to warp factor 4 – not a small task of ships of their size. We've everything checked and re-checked four times, of course. With all due respect towards Vulcan efficiency, I always sleep better when I've checked everything personally."

"I _know_ you're my pilot," Imaro said. "But you're also supposed to take a regular duty shift aboard the _Enterprise_."

"I haven't heard anything specific about that," Boomer replied, "although Lieutenant Commander Sulu kept giving me certain… hints. In any case, we've been ordered to check in by Chief Wong, the personnel officer of the _Enterprise_, within three standard days."

"I'm sure you, too, will get your disposition shortly," Masters added, addressing her words to Uhura. "Scotty meant the command crew would be drafted last, because Nogura wants you all to sweat a little first."

"Uhura's position is secured," Imaro said calmly. "I asked Admiral Nogura a direct question, and he didn't dare to sidestep."

"The Old Man dares a lot," Charlene Masters said. "Otherwise he'd never have managed to make Starfleet to what it is now. He isn't called God Himself for nothing."

"I've heard about that," Imaro nodded. "But allow me to say that I, too, have a certain… reputation in the outside world."

"I know: the Steel Eagle," Masters laughed. "By the way, you sound almost like Uhura."

"I do my best," Imaro replied, "although I'm still far from my ultimate goal in that department. Do you already know when the _Enterprise_ is supposed to leave the shipyards?"

"In two standard days," Masters said. "There will be an intermediate stop in the drydock above San Francisco to take aboard all crewmembers currently on Terra. The start is planned for…" she counted in her head for a moment, "the 21st March, Terran reckoning."

"That leaves _us_ a week," Uhura said. "Will you go aboard from Utopia Planitia or will you have to make the extra trip to Stratopolis?"

"We belong to the maintenance team… well, more or less," Boomer said, "so we also have the privilege to travel aboard the _Enterprise_ to Earth. Engineering has a full crew already, but the security section is still waiting for a few people to return from various advanced courses. That's all we know."

"And that's also enough for the time being," Imaro said. "I'll see you aboard in a week's time then, Captain."

"Yes, Colonel. I'm delighted to serve under your command once again, sir."

"This time, however, it's going to be a peaceful mission, Boomer."

"Yes, sir. That's the best part of it. Boomer out."

"Good-bye," Masters added, and the screen went dark.

Imaro gave his wife a long, thoughtful look. Uhura's face was so… distant, so foreign and exalted; he'd never seen her like this before. "Are you longing for the stars very much?" he asked.

Uhura nodded, her smile full of longing. "My heart is pulling me into two different directions, Imaro. When I'm at home, I hear the call of the stars, but when I'm aboard, I yearn for the Temple."

"I can see that," the dull, unexplained ache that Imaro sometimes felt, appeared again. "Do I have a place, too, in either of those constellations?"

Uhura woke from her daydreams with a jolt. Seeing the pain in her bondmate's face induced guilty feelings in her. She stepped closer to Imaro and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"You are in both, beloved," she replied, planting a slow, caressing kiss on the sad curve of his mouth. "You know that."

Imaro didn't answer at once, and Uhura's heart grew cold with fear. _It can't be that things would take a turn to the wrong, right now, after two years_, she thought, and looked into the dark, beautiful – and resigned – face of Imaro with anxiety.

"_Amuntu_, what is the meaning of this?" she asked. "Have you regretted already bonding your life with me? Or do you feel left out in our society, like a stranger under the rule of the Mothers?"

"Of course not," he said, somewhat mellowed, and returned her kiss. "No woman has ever loved me the way you do. And I've never been more respected among my people than I am now, wearing the highest rank possible in the long-yearned-for peacetime."

"What's wrong then?" Uhura wondered.

"I've just been thinking," Imaro said slowly, "what your choice might be, should you have to choose between me and the stars."

Uhura became ash grey, all of a sudden. This was something she'd been secretly wondering about, too.

"Do you intend to make me choose?" she asked.

Imaro shook his head thoughtfully. "No, I don't. At least not right now. But there might come a time when my people will have need of me, and I'll have to return to New-Libra. What will you do then?"

"I don't know," Uhura replied honestly. "This is a question that had caused me the one or other sleepless night already. I can only hope that I'll make a decision that suits us all. But I think it's too early to worry about that now. The next five years will belong us, for sure."

"I certainly hope so," Imaro said gravely. "Unless my people call me back earlier. You know I cannot neglect my duties."

"You shouldn't always imagine the worst," Uhura murmured, snuggling up to him. Imaro reacted to her closeness as he always did, and for a while, they forgot about their worries.

* * *

Much later, when Imaro was already asleep next to her under the brightly patterned, hand-woven blanket, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, Uhura noiselessly slid out of bed, pulled over her light robe and walked out onto the veranda. The night was blissfully cool in Munguroo, and the spicy aromas flooding in the light breeze reminded her of the damps of the huge forests on Two Twilights.

She was thirty-five now; it was the age when her people began with the mental practice of memory preservations. This was a training she had already started upon their arrival, as she'd known that her time in the Temple would be short. The ultimate goal of this practice was the supervising and ordering of memories and the grafting of those that had been found worth preserving into the long-term memory. Only people who've reached the so-called ritual maturity, a state that had little to do with actual age, were able to do that.

Now that she was about to leave the Temple again, she called up the mental pictures of her loved ones.

She began with the members of her family and her clan. With her grandfather who had taught African history at the University of Kenya. With her grandmother, the ruler of the clan, who hadn't been happy when their only daughter, Uhura's mother, had married a Starfleet officer who wasn't even the son of the Cult. Kyle Nichols, Uhura's high-spirited, over-active father, had died at a relatively young age, by the evacuation of an endangered colony. Her mother never remarried. She'd chosen to raise her daughters, Uhura, Kamala and Aretha, alone. And though the Mothers disagreed with that decision, they had to admit that she'd done a good job with them.

Nonetheless, she hadn't lived long, either. At the time when Uhura met Oulu in the boarding school for gifted children, her mother had already returned to the Ancestors.

Oulu had been the first man she'd loved. They'd loved each other at a very tender age, with such an obvious passion that the Mothers gave their blessings, although it was known that Oulu wouldn't have a long life, either. The illness that had taken him so young he had passed down tot heir daughter, too, and Karidy, the Love, this sweet and beautiful child, followed him to the Ancestor when she was barely four. They were both buried on Two Twilights, where they had lived happily, because that had been Oulu's wish, and Uhura respected it, no matter how much she'd wanted to bring their ashes home to the clan.

At least Kitharo had escaped that fate. He was born healthy and remained healthy, and he'd grown to become an intelligent and lovable young man under that protective wing of the Mothers. And now that he'd reached the border of manhood, he was ready to begin his own journey to the stars.

In a manner, Uhura had loved Sahel, too. They had never been _in love_, but the passion had been honest between them, and they both regretted that their bond had remained childless and therefore had to be broken. She might have been willing to give up the stars for him, but as the _Eldest Daughter_, she couldn't afford to live in an infertile bond. She had to give birth to the next generation of daughters.

Having broken the _mesq_ according to custom, Uhura returned to the _Enterprise_ – not to the experimental position of a counselor (which experiment had been already deleted by the admiralty) but as a communications officer, making her former fake position true. Captain Pike and his first officer had already left, and though she'd found new friends among her new shipmates, things were never the same again.

There she met Dr. M'Benga, who belonged to a similar African cult, and who'd offered his services for the then-upcoming _khemmer_, should she not have a partner yet. Uhura accepted the doctor's offer, grateful that she wouldn't have to spend the festival lonely and infertile, but their relationship was a strictly sacral one, which ended with the end of the _khemmer_. Uhura had recognized M'Benga's interest for his assistant nurse Johnson long before the doctor became aware of his own feelings, and she didn't want to stand in their way. She could see that Cindy Lou loved the doctor, too, although they were both too shy to make a move, and she hoped that one day they'll find the courage to admit their feelings for each other.

Their brief ritual encounter (although it remained childless) led to a steady friendship. M'Benga was the only man aboard whom Uhura allowed to arm's length after the traumatic events on Triskelion.

However, they never talked about those events, not even among themselves, and Uhura had remained alone for the rest of the five-year-mission… when Imaro walked into her life. Love flared up quickly between the two mature, lonely people, and they accepted this unhoped-for gift of fate with gratitude. Kimora's birth completed their happiness, and now that she'd continued her bloodline (ritually, only daughters counted as a continuation) Uhura was the first among Munguroo's Mothers again… something she'd never really hoped for.

Still, she knew that should duty call Imaro back to New-Libra, she would follow him. Perhaps not at once, perhaps only years later, as she had her own duties towards her own people. But when the time came, and Imaro still wanted her, she would follow him.

TBC


	2. New Beginnings

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

Some of the dialogue in this chapter is based on an early, rejected script to _Star Trek – The Motion Picture_ by Harold Livingston. The title of that script was _In Thy Image_. The description of the refitted _Enterprise_ follows the blueprints in _Mr. Scott's Guide to the Enterprise_ by Shane Johnson.

As we never learned the name of the _Enterprise_'s personnel officer, I named her after the actress who'd played her in the episode _Court-martial_. Meade Martin is also the actor's name who played the nameless assistant engineer.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1 – NEW BEGINNINGS**

The brand new dock office hanging in standard orbit above Earth seemed fragile like a decorative item made of porcelain. It was gleaming white: a mushroom-shaped centrepiece, from which four corridors radiated in a rectangle from each other. Each corridor had other circular units attached to it on both sides; from ones as small as a shuttlepod to ones as big as the saucer section of a starship, all having several independent docking rings. The four powerful, cylindrical generators, which were capable of collecting the solar energy from the Sun directly, were attached to the underside of the centrepiece and tapered to a high-capacity subspace communications tower on the bottom.

Rotating ever so slowly, the station offered an impressive sight, framed against the blackness of space and the azure-white globe of Earth beneath it. It housed several hundred people – mostly administrative personnel of Starfleet and the technicians of the nearby drydock facility – and was the most current pride and joy of the engineers who had constructed it.

A small travelling pod detached itself from one of the orbital office's docking rings and floated, propelled by tiny jets, towards the spidery network of the drydock – a huge, intricate structure, containing a gleaming white object. The grey-haired, middle-aged man in the working coverall of Starfleet's engineering section, who was flying it, smiled proudly at his companion, a command officer in his forties, with a captain's rank strips on his sleeve.

"Here she is, sir… more beautiful than ever."

And Captain James T. Kirk looked towards the gleaming object within the spidery structure and smiled. The dry dock's filigreed installation that enveloped the ship seemed fragilely beautiful with the white bulk of the _Enterprise_ inside. As the pod moved closer, they could see the small, automated welding devices moving along the girders. One of the devices stopped, sealed a weld with a brief, bright blue flare, and then moved along again. Here and there orbital technicians were working on the hull, the engine pods, the struts. They resembled specks of dust silhouetted against the hull's whiteness.

The travelling pod now approached the ship and settled in next to the airlock. The magnetic locks closed. A whooshing sound could be heard, as the airtight doors were secured, and the security bolts snapped closed with a _clang_.

"Pod secured," the voice of the landing officer said crisply through the intercom. "Pressure equalized."

The grey-haired engineer grinned at Kirk and touched the control opening the hatch; it slid open immediately.

They stepped out onto the cargo deck, which was busy with activity as various supplies were being stored. Engineering technicians in working coveralls used small antigravs to effortlessly move large containers of supplies and equipment to appropriate sections. One of the technicians, a dark-skinned young man with the naturally bald head and deep red eyes of the native _Mo'ari_ population of Alpha Centauri VII, met the newcomers right at the airlock.

"Mr. Scott, they'd like you in Engineering," he said; then he recognized Kirk and grinned broadly. "I beg your pardon, Captain. Your arrival was not announced for today."

"That's all right, Ensign Gabler," Kirk waved off the apology; all Centaurians serving in Starfleet used some terranized version of their names, for administrative purposes. "What's the problem in Engineering anyway?"

"They're having some damage control monitor relay problems, sir," the landing officer, a lanky blond Terran replied. Kirk gave him a second look; the man seemed familiar, but at the moment he couldn't put a name to the youthful face.

"Assistant engineer Meade Martin, Captain," the officer offered helpfully, then turned to Scott again. "They need you as soon as possible, sir."

Scott shot his captain an apologetic look. "I'd better get up there, sir. It's still early days, and we've got a lot o' final touches to perform."

Kirk nodded, and the engineer hurried away. Ensign Gabler shifted positions uncomfortably, clearly eager to follow them.

"Do you want someone to show you around the ship, sir?" he asked. Kirk gave him a sharp look,

"I think I can still find my way, Ensign, thank you. Dismissed."

"Aye-aye, sir," Gabler shrugged and darted towards the turbolift in obvious relief. Barely on board, and the captain already seemed to have one of _those_ days. Well, if he didn't want an escort, Gabler had things to do. Important things.

Uhura and Tigh (who didn't use his cult-name openly outside of Munguroo) departed the shuttle and they walked towards the terminal of the spaceport with their arms linked. In the anteroom, they were greeted by a small, friendly Chinese woman who wore her shiny black hair in a low knot on the nape of her neck: Nancy Wong, personnel officer and quartermaster of the _Enterprise_. She wore the new uniform, of which Uhura had heard already but saw for the first time: a burgundy red tunic with black side parts, a pre-scan device imbedded in its broad buckle, and long black trousers with slightly elevated shoes instead of the old, tight and impractical boots.

"Welcome aboard," she greeted them with a friendly smile. "Can I see your ID cards? Regulations, you know."

Uhura laughed. "Sure you can, Chief!"

Wong routinely ran a computer scan on the ID-cards, as regulations demanded, then gave them back the small, relief-printed, unbreakable plastic cards and nodded, still smiling.

"Everything's all right, Commander. You can beam up at once. I've had one of the VIP-quarters prepared for you, on Deck D, level 5 – I hope you'll like them.

Tigh nodded. "I'm sure we will, Chief."

"You're entitled to have independent quarters," Wong reminded Uhura, "you're a senior officer, after all. But I thought the two of you'd prefer to share quarters."

"And you were absolutely right, as always," Uhura smiled. "You're a jewel, Nancy."

"Well, I try to make everyone happy," Wong shrugged in an almost childlike manner. "Granted, it's not always easy, but now that your attaché will take the matter of the rec deck out of my hands, Colonel, I might eventually find some time to sleep. It would certainly be a welcome change, compared with our last mission."

They laughed, then Wong became serious again. "When can we expect your luggage to arrive?"

"It should already be here," Uhura replied. "But since we're allowed to take more personal items with us this time, the cargo transporter seems a bit overtaxed."

"I'll look after it," Wong promised. "Continue to transporter room two, please. You're already expected on board."

Uhura and Tigh followed her instructions and a few minutes later they materialized in the _Enterprise_'s main transporter room. Behind the central console the well-known long, bony figure of Lieutenant Kyle stood. On his side they saw a still quite young blonde woman, her hair twisted into a knot. They were both wearing the new working coveralls of the Engineering section: the ones that had been finally equipped with pockets, to every technician's utter relief.

"Commander Uhura!" the blonde woman cried out in delight, and leaving Kyle behind, she enclosed Uhura in a spontaneous embrace. "Do you still remember me?"

Uhura laughed. "Of course I do, Janice. It's good to see you again. Which position do you fill right now?"

"Assistant transporter chief," Ensign Rand told proudly. "Of course, I'm still just a green newbie in this area, but Chief Kyle is a very good instructor."

"I don't really think that you'd still need instructions, Janice."

"Oh yeah, I most certainly do! Granted, I know almost everything about the new systems, I was even able to gain some practical experience serving at the Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards, but Mr. Kyle has been doing this job for more than twenty years. That isn't something to catch up with easily."

"You'll do just fine, Janice," Kyle smiled and came forth from behind the console to greet the newcomers. "It's nice to see you again, Commander Uhura. Not many of the old senior crew are still here. Would you wait here for a moment? I must report the XO your arrival."

"Who _is_ the new XO?" Uhura inquired. "The admiralty shrouds themselves in mystery, it's practically impossible to learn anything about the new senior staff members."

Kyle pulled a face. "They were probably afraid of a mutiny when the old crew learns that they set us a newly promoted lieutenant commander before our noses as the new XO."

"Chief, don't be mean," Rand chastised him. "It's Willard Decker, after all!"

"Decker?" Uhura checked the name with the biological database she called her memory, for lack of a better expression. "Isn't he the son of the late Commodore Decker?"

"I don't really care who his old man used to be," Kyle declared. "The fact is, he'd just been hurriedly promoted to lieutenant commander, and considering how little experience he's had so far, even the position of Second Officer would be much too high for him. He's barely thirty years old, for God's sake!"

"If I remember correctly, Captain Kirk was thirty-three when he got the _Enterprise_," Uhura pointed out, "and that after he'd already lost one ship."

Kyle have her a funny look. "You still aren't very fond of the Captain, are you?"

"I'm loyal," Uhura replied coolly. "That should be enough."

"Besides, the new XO has barely finished command school," Kyle changed topics smoothly. "He used to be an engineer."

"That could come handy, should Mr. Scott try to fool us about his wee little machines again," Uhura replied, and everyone laughed.

The hiss of the sliding door interrupted their friendly chat. A tall, fairly thin, long-faced blond young man entered the transporter room. In the new, light blue uniform he looked like a lost little boy. In fact, he looked very… green for someone who was almost thirty, after all, with the typical over-eagerness of a too young officer trying to fill a much too demanding post on his dimpled face. The dimples, cute as they were, definitely didn't help things, Uhura decided.

"Commander Uhura?" he asked in a very official manner. Uhura suppressed a smile.

"Reporting for duty as ordered, sir," she replied in a crispy voice, crispier than it was her wont. Then she nodded towards her partner and added in a more civilian manner. "And this is Colonel Tigh."

"The diplomatic observer from the Kobol sector, yes, I know," the XO answered. "Welcome aboard, Colonel. I'm Lieutenant Commander Willard Decker, First Officer of the _Enterprise_. If you'd follow me... I could show you your quarters before I return to Engineering."

"Sir," Uhura was careful not to remind the young man of her higher rank, "I'm familiar with the layout of the _Enterprise_, and so is Colonel Tigh. We don't want to keep you from your duties without a sound reason."

The young man stiffened as if insulted.

"As you wish, Commander," he emphasized the last word. "However, you'll have to realize that this is a completely refitted _Enterprise_ now, it's therefore by no means sure that your former knowledge would still be sufficient."

With that, he turned on his heals and left, without any further comment. Uhura sighed, exchanging a long-suffering look with her old crewmates.

"I miss Mr. Spock already," Kyle grumbled.

"So do I," Uhura replied, "but we'll teach the boy how grown-ups have to believe, eventually."

"Don't be so sure," Kyle warned her pessimistically. "He was raised by her mother, in a group of those so-called 'New Mankind' guys. They don't even know theoretically what 'grown-up behaviour' means."

"Well, at least he managed to escape the paradise birds," Rand commented, "that's good enough for some hope."

"We'll see," Uhura shrugged. "What about the science section? Do we have a new science officer yet? I hope Headquarters doesn't expect Decker Junior to cover both of Spock's former areas of responsibility."

"Nah, not even the brass are _that_ irresponsible," Kyle replied darkly. "They're sending us a green Vulcan instead."

"As far as I've been informed, _all_ Vulcans are more or less green," Tigh intervened for the first time. "At least where their blood and their complexion are considered."

"That's right," Kyle nodded, "but those serving on Starfleet vessels usually aren't barely twenty-two years old."

"Vulcan years or Standard?" Uhura asked.

"What's the difference?" Kyle asked back.

"By twenty-two Vulcan years approximately eight Standard years," Uhura told him. "And if he weren't good at what he does, he surely wouldn't have been assigned to the _Enterprise_."

"That would cause bad blood," Kyle prophesised. "Science section says Admiral Nhauris has supposedly promised the job Lieutenant Boma, but Admiral Nogura insisted to have a Vulcan again."

"Boma certainly would have deserved it," Uhura nodded, "but none of us can choose our assignments. The best solution is to accept things as they are."

"You're probably right," Kyle admitted reluctantly.

"Am I not always?" Uhura laughed and took Tigh's arm. "C'mon, Colonel, we should move to our new quarters before I get ordered to the bridge."

"By your command," Tigh gave her a typical, smart Libran salute, quoting the over-used Cylon phrase, and followed her into the turbolift. Kyle looked after them, clearly touched.

"It's good to see that they are still together," he commented.

They stepped into the turbolift, still laughing, and Uhura called out their destination for the computer: "Deck D, level five, VIP area."

The lift swung into motion, but it came to a halt way before they would have reached the VIP area, in Uhura's estimation. The slide doors opened, and Chris Chapel backed into the cabin, guiding a pile of medical supplies being pushed by a med tech – Cindy Lou Johnson, Uhura realized, recognizing the lovely Jamaican nurse.

"Sorry, I've got some perishables here," Chapel spoke over her shoulder, without really seeing who else was in the turbolift. "Priority, level ten first."

Cindy Lou backed away, remaining in the corridor, as the lift doors snapped closed and the cabin started again.

"I really am sorry," Chapel continued, still not looking back, "but site-to-site transport is still a bit tricky, and if these get warm…"

"That's all right, Chris," Uhura laughed. Now Chapel turned to them, and her eyes grew wide with delight.

"Uhura! So good to see you again! And you too, Colonel. I heard you'd be coming with us…"

"I look forward to it… _doctor_," Tigh smiled. "It _is_ Doctor Chapel now, isn't it?"

"Not quite," Chapel replied. "I do have all exams, but I'm still working on my dissertation. I'm listed as head nurse practitioner, which means half way to being a doctor, but if we were still using bedpans, I'd still be emptying them."

"You don't seem to mind it much, though," Uhura smiled.

"No, I don't," Chapel admitted. "The truth is, this ship is the closest thing I've got to a home. I'm glad to be back."

The lift stopped again, the doors opened. Chapel carefully pushed her cargo out to the corridor. "See you at your physical," she grinned at them, and then she was gone.

* * *

As soon as she reached her new quarters, Uhura understood at once why the young Decker had said that she'd be dealing with a completely new _Enterprise_. Although still called VIP quarters (there was such thing as Starfleet tradition), the rooms could belong to the quarters of an admiral above a particularly frequented deep space station. These new VIP staterooms served as quarters for visiting officers, ambassadors and their spouses and Federation government officials, among others – and were furnished accordingly.

The stateroom assigned to Tigh (as the representant of the Twelve Colonies) was composed of two areas, which were separated by a retractable, transparent aluminium partition. The front door led directly to a small foyer, containing a wall-mounted food processor unit on the left side. This processor, a _Nutritech_ design (also called food replicator in recent times), was smaller than those used in public areas of the ship but its function was essentially the same. The foyer had direct access to the small, circular dining booth adjoining the working area. This was provided for those guests (or, in this case permanent inhabitants) who preferred to eat alone or needed to work during their meal.

Opposite the entrance, there was a transparent, smoke-coloured door to the generous sleeping area. Chief Wong conveniently had the two beds customary in VIP quarters replaced by one broad and low double bed, above which an up-to-the ceiling bookshelf provided enough room for personal items. Their suitcases, apparently having arrived in the meantime, were standing in the middle of the sleeping area.

On the right side, another transparent door led into the bathroom area, which had both a sonic shower booth and a Jacuzzi tub with a real shower. From the bathroom one could access a walk-in closet, in which only Uhura's new uniforms were hanging right now: black trousers with black-and-gold tunics as well as short and long sleeved white tunics for work.

The other half of the stateroom was the working area. This was somewhat larger than the bedroom, and, if possible, even more elegant. On the corridor side, build-in cabinets lined the wall, and in front of them stood a low, oval table – not a standard piece of furniture but Uhura's own coffee table from home, with the Deltan nappa leather armchairs, which she had transferred by cargo transport weeks earlier.

A viewscreen station stood against the wall left from the entrance, and leaning to the bedroom wall there was a computerized desk, directly connected to the _Enterprise_'s library computer, designed so that two people could work at it at the same time. Behind the desk, there was another small storage closet, for luggage or personal cargo, which couldn't be stored away on the cargo deck.

After they had studied their new home thoroughly, Uhura started packing in delight. For someone who'd spent so many years aboard a starship, this wasn't a difficult task; besides, she had Tigh to help her now. In less than an hour, the rooms lost their sterile atmosphere and became what they were meant to be: a home for two people who had chosen deep space as their second homeland. The hand-made Bantu hangings that had accompanied Uhura on all her missions covered the naked walls pleasantly, the totemistic figurines made of ebony – in various sizes between a ten centimetres and a foot – reminded them constantly of the community waiting for their return on Earth, the black and red patterned, white Berber rugs (still hand-knotted by tradition-respecting tribes) swallowed the noise of their steps, and the zebra skin duvet spread over the wide bed still symbolized the day for them on which they joined their lives through the time-honoured ceremony of _mesq_.

Counting on being called to the bridge any time now, Uhura vanished in the walk-in closet to try on the new uniform. To her pleasant surprise, the cut of the tunic turned out to the wearer's advantage, while the fabric was light and soft. She was particularly glad not to have wear boots all the time now. The new colours needed some getting used to, of course, but she'd worn a golden uniform before, in Captain Pike's times, when she belonged to the command staff, due to her experimental position.

When she left the closet, she found that Tigh had also found the time to change. It could be expected from someone who'd spent long years in the barracks, really. He was wearing his old, silver-adorned midnight blue uniform, like once on board the _Galactica_. His silver belt buckle gleamed, and the high collar of his uniform tunic was held together by a silver-set, hexagonal white gem, as he was representing the people of Libra in the _Quorum of Twelve_, even though currently living on Earth and only keeping subspace contact with the provisional government of his planet.

"Do you think this is really necessary?" Uhura asked in surprise. "You're a diplomatic observer on this mission… why the uniform?"

"I feel more comfortable this way," Tigh replied. "Or would you prefer me haunting the corridors of the _Enterprise_ in the flowing robes of a colonial councilman, frightening unsuspecting newbies to death? You know I'm supposed to wear the clothing of my homeworld on official missions."

Uhura shook her head, laughing. "As well as white suits you, I'm afraid this really is the better solution."

"I knew you'd say that," Tigh declared in smug satisfaction."

"You did? How come?"

"Well, I knew you were the woman with the best taste I've ever met."

"True, true. Which is the reason why I chose to marry you."

The door buzz that sounded only moments later both found really badly timed.

"Enter!" Tigh called out and let go of the waist of his wife with a sigh. The computer ignored the emotional load of the command and obeyed.

"I hope we're not disturbing," Charlene Masters, wearing the gold-black uniform of the engineering section and followed by Boomer, still in his civvies, entered the foyer with a broad smile.

"I have the impression our timing wasn't the best," Boomer guessed and kissed Uhura's hand in an exaggeratedly ceremonial manner. "It's nice to see you again, _Siress_ Uhura."

"Likewise, Captain," Uhura replied. "I hear Starfleet has acknowledged your officer's rank and permitted you to become part of our crew. Congratulations; that's a rare occasion. You must have impressed the Old Man greatly."

"Well, thank you," Boomer managed to look embarrassed and satisfied at the same time. "It's a little strange, isn't it? I mean, captains usually don't serve as ersatz helmsmen on Starfleet ships."

"Kirk will go totally apeshit," Masters prophesied in amusement. "He's too much used to be the only captain on board… _the_ Captain. But rank does have its privileges. We've got quarters usually only given to senior officers and are as good as VIP quarters. I've never lived so luxuriously aboard a starship before."

"Is it true that Rigel has married as well?" Tigh inquired, grabbing Boomer's forearm and squeezing it in warrior fashion. Boomer nodded.

"It seems to be a sudden development. Two months ago, she signed a one-year marriage contract with Lieutenant Commander Sulu. She's also absolved a successful retraining at Starfleet Academy and will be assigned as ersatz navigator in the Beta shift. We'll work together. Just like in old times."

"But who's going to replace Chekov?" Uhura asked. "Now that he's been promoted to Chief of Security, Alpha shift will need a new lead navigator."

"That seems to be quite the mystery," Masters replied. "Apparently not even Chief Wong is informed."

"That's highly unlikely," Uhura shook her head. "Unless our new navigations officer belongs to one of the less… pleasant species. But even so, Wong needs to know, so that she can prepare the newcomer's quarters accordingly."

"You mean we'll get a Tholian?" Masters wondered. "I didn't know we are allied to them nowadays."

"Don't be ridiculous," Uhura waved her off. "There are enough species _within_ the Federation to work with whom could be… complicated."

"I know!" Masters declared in a dramatic manner. "We'll get a Tellarite!"

Uhura shook her head in maternal patience. "Charlie, you're quite cocky today."

"It's probably because I haven't got to see our esteemed captain yet," Masters told her, "while I got a great deal of relevant compliments from several good-looking security officers, including Lieutenant Garrovick and Mohammed Jahma."

"Whom I'll have to kill, sooner or later," Boomer added darkly. Masters leaned over to him, laughing, and kissed him.

"You're so cute when you're jealous."

"She thinks she can get away with everything, just because she's pregnant," Boomer explained gravely. "But I tell you: even a pain-trained husband blows off his top sometimes, and vengeance will be gruesome."

They all laughed, Uhura feeling a little nostalgic. "Now I understand why you're so high-spirited," she said. "Your first baby, isn't it?"

The younger woman nodded. "Yeah. Fortunately, things are running relatively smoothly. At the moment, anyway."

"How old is the baby now?"

"Nine weeks. Hopefully, it will last. The peace, I mean."

"It's possible," Uhura said. "With Kitharo, I didn't have any problems, either. With Karidy, I felt sick all the time, I was grateful to have a planetary assignment at that time. And most recently with Kimora, it was smooth and easy again. Every baby is different. But… the captain won't be happy to learn that you're pregnant."

"I know," Masters pulled a face. "That's why I won't even tell him for the time being. Only Dr. M'Benga knows, and I can count on him to keep the doctor-patient confidence."

"Oh, he will. The man is more reliable than a Vulcan. And you'll have at least three more months before you start showing."

"I hope so," Masters laughed. "My mother remained quite slender, up till the last couple of weeks. Maybe I'll get lucky, too."

"Good luck," Uhura smiled.

In that very moment, the intercom interrupted their conversation. "Senior officers to the bridge."

"It starts already," Uhura, too, pulled a face, but more in joke than seriously. "And I have hoped to draw at least three deep breaths before plunging headfirst into work."

"Look at the bright side," Tigh comforted her. "At least you'll be among the first ones who get all the new information."

"True again," Uhura pulled on the still unfamiliar new uniform and gave her appearance a sideways glance in the mirror. "Time to go, then."

To be honest, she didn't really mind being called to the bridge already. They had finished packing already, and as pleasant as being reunited with old friends could be, that was not the top priority right before start. Going to the _bridge_ at the beginning of a new mission was something she always felt really strongly about. Just like Chapel, it gave her the feeling of coming home, and that made her happy.

* * *

Stepping out onto the bridge, the first person she saw was Lieutenant M'ress, the Caitian communications officer with whom she had already served during the most recent five-year-mission of the _Enterprise_. The good-natured feline with the thick, orange-red mane was working rapidly and expertly at the comm station, sorting out and checking channels.

"Hailing frequency four, check," she purred, most likely to someone in the communications lab. "Hailing frequency five… hailing frequency five, will _someone_ give me a check?"

At the helm, Sulu had a service plate open, peeking inside while he made some adjustments.

"Helm, give me a reading on four point zero zero six of full," he ordered. "Someone down in Engineering answered something, and Sulu continued on with other readings.

At Weapons Control Station Chekov was having an argument with Technician Thule, an experienced Andorian, who kept insisting that the photon torpedoes read "ready", while Chekov argued that the computer is _not_ relaying that information to his weapons scanner.

At various other stations, other technicians were at work, rapidly counting down checklists and arguing about whether or not a particular piece of equipment was working within normal parameters. With other worlds, the bridge was a mess, with service panels open, spare parts lying around, some circuits still leading across deck areas. The very normal organized chaos before start – familiar and heart-warming, on its hectic way.

Uhura grinned and turned to the command chair and the man occupying it.

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura reporting to duty, sir," she said crisply. Kirk grinned back at her.

"Welcome aboard, Uhura. Care to take over your station already?"

"Gladly, sir," Uhura switched positions with M'ress and continued where the Caitian left. At almost the same time, a call came in. She checked the source and turned her seat (_nice, comfy new seat_, she noticed absently) to Kirk again.

"Captain, transporter room reports the new navigations officer is ready to beam aboard. She's a… Deltan, sir," she added. Kirk brushed off her subtle warning.

"I know where she's from," he said, then looked at Chekov. "Mr. Chekov, since our first officer is currently otherwise occupied, would you go to the transporter room and welcome her? She's taking over your old job, after all."

"Aye, Keptin," the Russian was obviously not comfortable with the idea, but orders were orders. He left without protest.

Barely had he reached the transporter room when the transporter began humming and a breathtakingly beautiful young woman materialized on one of the platforms. A Lieutenant Junior Grade, according to her rank strips, she wore a uniform in command gold, but her most prominent feature was her head. She was completely hairless – entirely bald, but for the delicately slanted eyebrows and long eyelashes, a feature that, strangely enough, was not at all unattractive. With her jewelled Deltan headband shadowing the baldness, she emanated a definite, almost intense sensuality.

"Lieutenant Ilia requesting permission to come aboard," she said in an exotically accented, soft voice.

Chekov felt the blood rising in his cheeks and cursed his fair skin. Theoretically, he was aware of the effect of Deltan pheromones on humans, but thus was the first time she was confronted with said effect in the praxis.

"Per… permission granted," he stuttered, feeling fairly ridiculous,

Unexpectedly, Ilia smiled at him (it nearly made him swoon) and held out a fine, slender hand to him.

"Go ahead," she encouraged him. "It's all right."

If possible, Chekov became an even deeper shade of red.

"What do you mean with 'go ahead'?" he asked, flustered. Ilia shook her head tolerantly.

"Lieutenant, as every Deltan woman, I can sense it when a man longs to touch me. There's no need to repress, as long as you're aware that I'm sworn to celibacy as far as my shipmates are concerned. So, take my hand and get it out of your mind, or you will prove to be an unwelcome distraction, for me as well as for yourself."

She offered her hand again. Awkwardly, self-consciously, Chekov took it into both of his hands. Ilia gracefully extended her other hand, brushing his cheek with the gentlest touch of her palm and fingertips. To Chekov's astonishment, he felt his embarrassment evaporate, although he wasn't quite sure how he'd achieved _that_ state of mind.

"Better?" Ilia asked. Chekov nodded his thanks.

"Yes. Thank you."

She touched his face again, smiling in gentle understanding. "Don't mention it. We can calm as well as stimulate. Now, would you show me the way to the bridge?"

Chekov smiled back at her. "Of course. This way, please."

As they emerged from the turbolift onto the outer bridge platform, all looks turned to them in awe.

"Keptin," Chekov said, leading her down to the command chair," this is Lieutenant Ilia, our new navigator…"

"… from 114 Delta V, I know," Kirk nodded. "I've heard about you, Lieutenant."

"And I about you, sir," Ilia replied, smiling. "May I assume my position?"

For just a moment, Kirk seemed mesmerized… completely caught up in that smile. Then he realized where they were and cleared his throat a little embarrassed.

"Well… please, don't let me interfere with your duties."

Chief DiFalco, one of the numerous ersatz navigators, rose from her seat and Ilia took over her place beside Sulu, continuing the system check with calm efficiency. Bridge activities continued on, as if the little interlude had not happened at all, until Chief Kyle's voice sounded through the intercom again.

"Transporter room to bridge… is the captain there?"

Kirk pushed the intercom button on the armrest of his chair. "Kirk here. What's it, Mr. Kyle?"

"The new science officer is beaming up now, sir," Kyle replied. "You wanted to welcome him personally, Captain."

"I'll be right here," Kirk said, and as he hurriedly moved to leave the bridge, he tossed over his shoulder. "Mr. Sulu, you have the bridge."

* * *

Reaching the transporter room he found not only Kyle there, but also Mr. Scott, mostly to check how the new machines are functioning, and two other technicians whose names he could momentarily not remember. The chief engineer was studying his controls with a worried frown. Kirk glanced at the receiving chamber – it was empty. No evidence of the beaming process going on.

"Is there a problem, Scotty?" he asked. His chief engineer and resident tech wizard gave him an unhappy look.

"Aye, Captain. The new systems still do have their quirks. I'm not gonna risk anybody's safety unless I'm one hundred per cent sure that everything's all right." He changed something on the control panel and swore softly in Gaelic. "Give it a try now, Mr. Kyle."

Kyle flicked on the comm unit. "_Enterprise_ to Starfleet orbital station, we're ready to receive."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when suddenly the entire console erupted in a shower of sparks. The humming sound of the energizer grew very loud, as if out of control. The figure that had just appeared in the chamber shimmered, then materialized vaguely, and then shimmered again. The two technicians stood there frozen with shock, panic clearly written in their faces, but Kyle didn't lose a nanosecond.

"Scotty, reverse process!" he shouted, and the chief engineering hurriedly obeyed. The figure vanished from the platform again.

Kirk glared at the transporter chief accusingly. "What the hell was _that_, Mr. Kyle?"

Kyle shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Captain. The system worked flawlessly just a few minutes ago when Lieutenant Ilia beamed up. We'll have to run a diagnostic, and…"

"How long?" Kirk interrupted.

"Approximately thirty to forty minutes, sir," Scott replied.

"Very well," Kirk sighed. "Keep me informed. I'll be on the bridge."

Returning to the bridge, he found all personnel occupied with pre-departure tasks, although they still had almost six hours until their scheduled takeoff. Some of the control panels were now closed, and the chaos seemed to have lessened considerably.

"Dock officer reports we are clear to pull away at your discretion, Captain," Uhura reported. "We're on yellow alert."

Kirk nodded and moved to the science station, where Decker was peering into the hooded viewer, punching in programmed procedures, with the assistance of Chief DiFalco.

"Inform Engineering and tell Scotty to hurry up with transporter diagnostics," Kirk said to Uhura, and then he turned to Decker, a little impatiently. "Can't you program a pre-departure plan any faster? We're supposed to leave here in six hours, not in six days!"

The young man glanced up at him, blue eyes cold with anger and humiliation.

"If I did, Captain, we'd never leave the dock in one piece. I'm an engineer, not a navigator or a science officer. Or is that what you thought I was when you yanked me off the _El Mahdi_ to serve here?"

Kirk forced his flaring anger back under the surface with some effort, remembering that the young man probably felt overtaxed with this assignment, and rightly so. Becoming the executive officer of a _Constitution_-class starship and would have been intimidating for a freshly promoted lieutenant commander of barely thirty years.

"Commander," he said with forced patience, "I'm aware that you are not a science officer. But that's the very reason you were 'yanked' off the _El Mahdi_ – because of your versatility. I need someone like you to backstop not only me but the other vital stations as well."

"Yes, sir," Decker replied testily, obviously not persuaded at all. Kirk sighed.

"Look, Will," he said in a conciliatory, almost paternal manner, "I know you wanted to start command experience on a much smaller scale, but I need you here. Consider this as advanced command school. Sooner or later, you'll be slanted for your own command, and then you'll be grateful for all the experience gathered on board the _Enterprise_."

"Whatever you say, sir," Decker replied tersely, paternal manners apparently wasted on him. Kirk was tempted to reprimand him for his tone when Uhura interrupted.

"Captain, transporter room reports diagnostics finished and everything checking out fine. Science and medical officers are ready to be beamed aboard." She shot Kirk a curious look. "No information about their identity, sir."

"I know," Kirk replied glumly. "Admiral Nogura said he wanted to _surprise_ me."

Uhura winced in sympathy. The Old Man, as the supreme commander of Starfleet was called behind his back, had a rather… peculiar sense of humour. On the other hand, the _Enterprise_ was Starfleet's pride and joy, and Captain Kirk the Old Man's favourite. One could be certain that only the best of the best could get a transfer here.

"Well," Kirk sighed," I'd better get down there and play nice. Do the best you can," he added to Decker, quickly leaving the bridge with the angry glare of his young XO in his back.

He found both Scotty and Kyle at the central control panel. The two techs were working at the other controls. Scott glanced up to him.

"Transporter is in perfect working order now, sir," he announced with proprietary pride. "We've found and corrected the power fluctuation."

Kirk nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Scott. That was fast and efficient, as always." Then, turning to the transporter chief, he added. "Energize, Mr. Kyle. Let's see whom Admiral Nogura has gifted upon us."

Kyle murmured his wiry, dark-skinned technician some highly technical comment that probably only the chief engineer could understand beside them, and they activated the new transporter mechanism with smooth, synchronous moves like a well-oiled machine.

As the shimmering effect of the new transporter commenced, two forms materialized on the platforms. One of them was young, long-haired, his brand new uniform already shabby, almost ragged. He couldn't be more than twenty-two, by the sight of him, and looked around curiously, as if visiting such a huge starship for the first time in his life. There was, however, a strange, steel-hard coldness in his dark eyes that belied his youthful looks. The other person was older, _much_ older; a thin and seemingly fragile man, but his blue eyes still full of fire.

Before Kirk could have recovered from his speechless surprise, Montgomery Scott hurried around Lieutenant Kyle's console with a speed that put his grey hair to shame, ran to the transporter platform and greeted the second newcomer with an affectionate embrace.

"I cannae believe my ancient eyes!" he cried out excitedly, his thick Scottish accent more audible than usual, as always when he got fired up. "Is that you, Doc, or just a ghost from our grand olde times?"

At the same time, the slender young man in the shabby uniform snapped to attention, while still standing on his own platform. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Xon, Science officer, requesting permission to come aboard, sir."

Unfortunately, no one paid him the scantest attention. Kirk had stepped over to Dr. McCoy, peered at him and shook his head in utter disbelief. The doctor himself didn't display any enthusiasm about being back on board, though.

"Chief Medical Officer McCoy requesting permission to come aboard, sir," he repeated the same official request at the young man – but with visibly less eagerness.

Kirk still couldn't quite trust his eyes. "Bones, how did... is this some kind of joke…?"

"No joke, _Captain_, sir," McCoy replied in a flat, tight tome. "I'm sure a copy of my orders is already in the personnel computer."

The shabby-looking young man chose this particular moment to try getting their attention again. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Xon requesting permission to come aboard, sir."

Kirk winked him off impatiently. "Yes, yes, permission granted…" then he turned back to McCoy. "What happened?"

McCoy's eyes darkened in anger. "What happened, _Captain_, sir, was that our revered Chief of Staff, Admiral Nogura himself, invoked a little known – and seldom used – reserve activation clause..." he paused, perhaps to control his anger. "In simpler language, Captain, s_ir_, I have been _drafted_."

Kirk was so nonplussed he couldn't find the right words. After all, McCoy had told him during their last encounter in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested in another deep space mission. The captain glanced at Scott who was also unable to conceal a delighted smile. It was like old times again… well, almost.

The shabby-looking young man used the abrupt silence for another futile attempt to get the captain's attention.

"Sir, I'm Lieutenant Junior Grade Xon…"

McCoy shot him a baleful look. "Yes, Lieutenant Junior Grade Xon, we can _smell_ you."

"Where were you that you got into such a foul state, Lieutenant?" Kirk inquired, finally acknowledging the presence of the young man.

"The high Gobi desert," Xon replied matter-of-factly, as if it would be the most natural thing in the world. "In a meditative monastery, sir."

"Doing what?" Kirk asked sarcastically. "Rolling in yak droppings?"

Xon tilted his head to the side with a strange, bird-like jerk. "Preparing myself for duty, sir. In the event a shipboard assignment should occur."

Kirk stared at him in disbelief. "You're a lieutenant! Are you trying to tell me you've never had shipboard duty?"

"Jim," McCoy laid a shooting hand upon his friend's forearm. "I think he's just _graduated_ a lieutenant. How long ago?" he asked from the young man.

"Eighty-one days ago, sir," Xon replied calmly.

Kirk gave an audible sigh of relief. "He's yours then," he said to McCoy. "Medical officer."

But the doctor shook his head. "He's yours. Even Vulcans have to graduate as lieutenants."

Kirk stared at the newcomer for a few endless moments. Then quietly, very quietly, in an almost begging manner, he asked. "Please tell me you don't have pointed ears, Lieutenant."

Xon held his stare without a flinch. His unmoving face didn't reveal anything under the layer of dirt and dust that was covering it.

"I see no reason to begin our acquaintance with an insult, sir," he finally said in a cold, even voice. "Am I dismissed? I would like to take a shower and put on a clean uniform, if I may."

"That," Kirk replied dryly, "seems a good idea to me. Dismissed."

As the young man left the transporter room without any further comment, Kirk looked at the doctor. "It seems to me, Bones, that Admiral Nogura has a few rather… interesting ideas for our new mission. I'd like to see the personal file of this Lieutenant Xon."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3 The First Mission

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

The peculiarities of Vulcan name-giving are from Diane Duane's books. I twisted a little the Deltan customs (and Ilia's name), for the purpose of this series. Jedda Adzhin-Dall is a canon character, seen only for a short time in _Star Trek II – The Wrath of Khan_.

By the way, it's not a mistake – this _is_ Chapter 3. I can't post Chapter 2 here, due to the increasingly unpredictable rules of this site, but you can read it on the otherworlds lib LJ community.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3 – THE FRIST MISSION**

The new briefing room of the _Enterprise_ was located on Deck G, Level 7, and compared with the old one, it was furnished almost luxuriously. Its measures were about the same as those of a V.I.P. room or the quarters of the senior officers, but it stood almost empty, save from the subspace comm unit and the conference table.

Said table was roughly shaped like a kite, its surface shiny black, and around it stood three fastened seats that could be spun around. By demand, one could place at least the same number of additional seats around the table, which could happen, should the captain ask for an extended meeting. Left from the head – the captain's place – a computer unit was integrated into the table, with direct access to the starship's vast library computer; this would have been the place for the head of the science section, eventually occupied by another scientist. In front of each seat, an intercom-unit was built into the table, so that the section leaders could contact their subordinates at any given time. The bleakness of the room was only softened by a large, plotted pant in the corner next to the subspace comm console, and by the symbols of the UFP and Starfleet on the walls.

When Uhura and Tigh arrived, the senior officers had already gathered in the briefing room. This was Uhura's first chance to get a good, long look at his colleagues, as her hurried take-over on the Bridge hadn't given her any time for it. She found that Captain Kirk hadn't changed much during the recent years; he put on some weight, but the new uniform was most helpful to cover this fact. What surprised Uhura more was the fact that her commanding officer's once thin, blond hair had not only become darker and more curly, but also a lot thicker. _Hair implants_, she thought, clamping down her iron self-discipline, in order to not give away her thoughts. Sure, Kirk had always been vain like a peacock, but this...! Of course, the presence of the new First Officer, with the age and the pretty face of a young boy, presented a serious challenge to the biggest Don Juan of the known galaxy.

Dr. McCoy, on the other hand, had been doubtlessly born sixty years old, and he'd done his best to match his appearance with that age for quite some time. Strangely enough, the few additional wrinkles acquired in recent years looked good on him; but he seemed way too fragile and tired in the bright new uniform.

Scotty, again, had aged almost frighteningly. His once jet-black hair had turned iron grey, and he was now wearing a moustache, which, strangely enough, remained black... and his whole body had become somehow… heavier. Uhura looked away hurriedly, because it hurt to see this man who'd always loved the simple pleasures of life so much, this... drained. She made a mental note to find out what might have broken the chief engineer this much. Now that Spock wasn't aboard any longer, Scotty remained her only old friend from Captain Pike's times. _In fact, we are the actual "seniors" here_, she thought a little sadly.

Sulu hadn't changed a bit. Well, perhaps there was the one or other tiny wrinkle in the corner of his eyes, but he still emanated the same unshakable calm, like an enigmatically smiling Buddha. He wore the golden insignia of a lieutenant commander on his sleeves, and Uhura looked at his hand to confirm the rumours that he'd gotten married. But even if it was true, the helmsman wore no wedding band.

Chekov... Chekov had grown up completely since their last encounter. The always-tousled young ensign of their last mission was now neatly combed, his hair smoothed to the side. His childlike face had hardened into manhood; his suspiciously narrowed eyes and the insignia of a lieutenant on his sleeves showed that the rattle-brained little navigator had been shaped into a well-educated, professional soldier in Annapolis, by the merciless training officers of the Security Academy. However, behind that now-stern facial expression there was still, well-hidden, the same likeable person, whom even the otherwise so unbending Spock was willing to overlook minor failures, born of over-eagerness. An oversight that certainly won't be necessary in the future.

And there was, of course, the young generation. Will Decker, who was wriggling in his seat on Kirk's right like an over-eager student, whose self-confidence had been just recently shaken by a stern professor. Uhura could see the barely veiled impatience of his colleagues towards the young titan, and felt a bit sorry for the boy. It couldn't be a comfortable feeling, being First Officer on Starfleet's flagship, where nearly all section leaders were twice his age and wearing a higher rank, not to mention their involuntary reactions that could be summarized as "I used to know your father, kid, he was a great man".

On Kirk's left, behind the computer-terminal built in there for his convenience, sat the new leader of the science section – who had already managed to embarrass himself greatly and almost kill them all, through his first act of duty. Now that there was no imminent danger, Uhura took her time to look him over thoroughly. An incredibly young Vulcan, with the large, dark eyes and finely pointed ears of a gazelle and curly dark hair, he was exotic and beautiful like a young faun, and Uhura could read from McCoy's scowling face that the board psychologist would likely be overrun by the victims of a worse, extended case of the "Spock Syndrome". There could be no doubt that many young, inexperienced crewmembers would develop a crush on this boy.

_Or even the older, more experienced ones who ought to know better_, Uhura thought with a wry smile.

And as if it weren't bad enough… Looking towards the narrow end of the conference table, Uhura understood al too well why Starfleet Command had kept the identity of their new navigations officer confidential till the last possible moment. The young, seemingly fragile woman in the golden bridge uniform and the traditional, jewelled headband signalling her rank and marital status – and thus her significance in Deltan society – was literally oozing sexual magnetism.

Uhura, who had absolved part of her studies on 114 Delta V, realized, of curse, that Lieutenant Ilia was actually holding back a great deal of her natural seductiveness, but even so, her mere presence was enough to turn inexperienced young men – or older, more experienced ones, for that matter – into babbling idiots.

To be fair, Uhura reminded herself that Deltan males had the same effect on human women. Still, it was a bit of fun to watch even Xon's ear tips become bright green. He must have been very young indeed, to have such a tedious group on Vulcan biocontrol. As a rule, Vulcans could resist Deltan pheromones a lot better.

Deltan culture was approximately three times older than humanity, although they were roughly on the same technological level as most Federation worlds. Deltans were also the best navigators of the entire galactic quadrant, but due to their very potent pheromones, serving in Starfleet was bound to very strict rules for them. Because of their unrivalled abilities in astronavigational mathematics, they were very much sought after, and so they had to take their spouses with them or swear an oath of celibacy. Whichever might be the cause with their new navigator, _one_ thing was sure: they were going to have a _very_ interesting journey.

Which made Uhura think about Chinese curses again(1).

Just as Kirk was about to begin to speak, the doors of the briefing room swooshed open again, and Chief Wong hurried in. She gave the others a brief nod and took the only empty seat left, next to the Deltan woman.

"Have all crewmembers arrived, Chief?" Kirk asked.

"Aye, sir," Wong replied, in the manner of a woman who had been unjustly accused of neglecting her duties. "Aside from those who will come aboard on Starbase 13, of course."

Kirk looked properly contrite. "I'm sorry, Chief, I know how reliable you are," he shifted positions, addressing everyone present. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome you back on board and declare our first mission briefing for opened. Most of us have known each other for many years, but as you can see, we also have quite a few new faces in the command staff."

"Have you heard from Spock lately, Jim?" McCoy asked, light-heartedly ruining his commanding officer's carefully created welcome speech, as usual.

"Nothing new," Kirk replied grimly. "According to Ambassador Sarek, he's still with the Masters of Gol, preparing himself for the _kolinahr_-exam."

The young Vulcan lieutenant stirred in his seat. "If I may correct the captain… _kolinahr_ is _not_ an exam of some sort. It is a state of pure logic; most Vulcans work all their lives on reaching that particular state, as it is not an easy thing to achieve. The exercises in the Desert of Gol only provide the best circumstances for the _kolinahr_-adepts."

Kirk rolled his eyes.

"As you have no doubt realized already, we are _not_ doomed to find our way in the darkness of space without the guiding light of Vulcan logic," he commented sarcastically. "This is our new science officer, Lieutenant Xon. He comes from the scientific colony Vulcana Regar and studied at the Vulcan Academy of Sciences, the University of Makropyrios and the Starfleet Academy, respectively. This is his first deep space mission."

"We've all realized _that_," Decker growled, still royally pissed at the Vulcan for the most recent near-disaster… and for ruining hours of his hard work.

"Oh, come on, Will," McCoy said kindly, "we have enough room to open a childcare unit."

Apparently, Lieutenant Xon had even less sense of humour than Commander Spock had used to have in his own time.

"I cannot find any logic in your comment, doctor," he replied in a flat, even voice. "I have several degrees in quantum physics, higher mathematics and computer sciences, after all. Beyond that, I've had the privilege to work in such borderline disciplines as sub-atomic particle physics and transwarp theory. If you consider _this_ as pre-school level, I must really wonder what you would understand under higher scientific education."

"The doc was speaking of your lack of practical experience, Lieutenant," Sulu explained helpfully.

Xon stiffened in his seat.

"I'm aware of the fact that I cannot compare myself with Commander Spock in that area," he said dryly. "However, even he had to start his service as a beginner; and that is exactly what I am doing here."

"Good, very good, Lieutenant," Kirk nodded. "For starters, you could try _not_ to interrupt me without a _very_ good reason. That's something people aboard the _Enterprise_ usually don't do – aside from Dr. McCoy, of course. But all Starfleet doctors have an unfortunate tendency to insubordination, so we have to handle them as a different category."

"Well, someone _has_ to cure the commanding officers of starships from the delusion of being God," McCoy commented disrespectfully.

Xon's only comment was an arched Vulcan eyebrow. Apparently, he found it illogical to comment on the irrelevant bickering between the captain and the chief medical officer. _Well, he'll have to get used to it_, Uhura thought with hidden amusement, watching the thin profile of the young man curiously. If not for that emotionless Vulcan mask, it would have been a rather mobile face, and Uhura remembered the rumours that Vulcana Regar was a rather… free-spirited colony as Vulcans go.

They were said to follow a slightly different branch of the IDIC-philosophy, although _how_ different, it would be hard to define, as they never talked about it to strangers. The members of the colony were almost exclusively scientists who used their world as a springboard for further expeditions into unexplored space. Their young students, it was said, raced through the best universities of the Federation like comets, but they often had problems with fitting in socially, as they were all a little precocious (even in Vulcan measure) and their interests seldom went beyond theoretical sciences.

Uhura wondered whether this was the case with Xon as well. The young Vulcan looked up, meeting her eyes, as if he knew what she was thinking. Perhaps he did. Most Vulcans were considered touch-telepaths, but like in everything, there, too, could be exceptions. Besides, her only experiences with a Vulcan had been with Spock – who could tell for certain what a full-blooded Vulcan was capable of? Nobody but Spock had ever served on a starship with mostly human crew(2).

In the meantime, Kirk made another attempt to steer the briefing back to its actual topic.

"I assume you've already met our new First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Willard Decker," he said. "I've specifically asked for him, to make sure he'd get the chance to gain sufficient command experience."

"You're not in an enviable position, son," McCoy said in his best uncle-like manner. "Everyone is going to act in your best interest because you're Matt Decker's kid – it will be hell. I only hope you won't develop any complexes."

"He won't have the time for that," Kirk replied in Decker's stead. "But I'd thank you, Bones, if you didn't suggest those complexes into him yourself. Besides, you shouldn't forget that he's the executive officer if this ship, even if he's still young and you outrank him. You should hold back with your little temper tantrums. Spock could take them in a stride, but not everyone had nerves of steel."

"Jim, you've known me since your time as a _very_ green lieutenant," McCoy replied, completely unfazed. "You of all people should know that I'd never misuse my unfair advantage against the weak."

The young Decker became beet red from embarrassment, but he sought for a witty riposte in vain.

"Never mind," Sulu consoled him. "The doc has his way with people. All his compliments come near to a medium strength insult. Not even Mr. Spock could bear him in the long run."

"But," Chekov added merrily, his true personality shining through his new, tough image as security chief for a moment," he's only mean as long as you're all right. Should anything happen to you, he'd fight for you like a lion."

"May I perhaps continue?" Kirk inquired with a calmness that promised a storm of extraordinary proportions afterwards. The room became eerily silent at once. "How generous of you," he said. "Now I perhaps might be able to officially introduce Lieutenant Ilia, our new chief navigator. Have I pronounced the name correctly, Lieutenant?"

"You've used the common Federation Standard version, which is sufficient, Captain," the Deltan woman replied; her voice was soft and child-like, her accent sensuously exotic. "My actual name is Ei'lia Maprida'hn, but that would be way too complicated for most non-Deltans. I'm used to be addressed as _Ilia_."

"Hmmm…" Kirk wasn't really sure what to think about the comment. "Oh, and Lieutenant… I can't find the certificate of your oath of celibacy in your file."

"At the moment, it's not necessary for me to swear the oath, sir," she replied calmly, respectfully. "Only unbound Deltans are required to do so, and I have one of my spouses with me."

"_One_ of your… spouses?" Kirk shot his personnel officer an irritated look.

"Jedda Adzhin-Dall," Chief Wong replied, without having to look it up in her electronic notebook first. "Twofold doctor of quantum physics and stellar mathematics, professor of the _Ushuaiya-University_ on 114-Delta V. Temporarily assigned to the science section of the _Enterprise_, he came aboard shortly before our start," she paused, then added helpfully. "Deltans generally live in group marriages, sir.

"Are there other civilians in the science section?" Kirk asked with a frown. Wong's sociological addition didn't seem to interest him at all.

"As a whole, six civilians have been assigned to the _Enterprise_," Chief Wong reported. "Aside from DDr. Adzhin-Dall, they are: T'Pel, a Vulcan sociologist and historian, Cassiopeia of New-Gemini, who will take over the management of the _rec deck_; and, of course Colonel Tigh and the rest of his staff. Additional ones will come aboard on Starbase 13. I'm still waiting for their files to be transferred from Starfleet Sciences."

"One could hardly call Colonel Tigh a _civilian_," Scotty said, bowing slightly in his seat towards Tigh, for whom he'd developed a healthy respect since the great showdown against the Cylons.

"Well, he doesn't officially belong to Starfleet," Chief Wong replied with a shrug. "He's not even a citizen of the Federation, so, legally, he _is_ a civilian. Of course, as the representative of the New Colonies of Kobol and as a member of the _Quorum of Twelve_, the ruling body of the entire Sector G-132, he's not an _ordinary_ civilian, either."

"It's a complicated status," the attractive Asian-American woman in the black uniform of Starfleet's Justice Division added. "This is the first time that the team of a foreign dignitary would be integrated into the crew of a Starfleet ship. We hope that it would serve as precedence, though. It might prove helpful for future cooperation with allied powers."

"Thank you, Lieutenant M'Botabwe," Kirk nodded. "Well, as you can see, new regulations require from all deep space exploration ships to have a representative of Starfleet's Judge Advocate General aboard. In our case, it is Lieutenant M'Botabwe. She used to work with Admiral Suvuk of Vulcan and is an expert of interstellar law."

The others gave the lawyer a wary look but tried to stay friendly. Her kind was always greeted with suspicion from the side of officers who often had to walk the fine line of the law on deep space missions.

"Is Sector G-132 where the new colonies have been relocated after the end of a millennium-long war against cybernetic organisms?" Xon asked, turning the conversation back to its former topic, to general relief.

Uhura nodded. "Yes, Lieutenant. Colonel Tigh used to be the executive officer of Fleet Commander Adama and is now he Councillor of New Libra."

"As far as I am informed, you have a… personal relationship with the colonel, Commander Uhura," Decker said. The remark came out very indiscreetly, and when he realized it, he became beet red once again.

Tigh had mercy with him, seeing that the remark wasn't meant to be rude… just clumsy.

"That's no secret," he said. "_Siress_ Uhura is my lifemate, and we have a daughter together. And to save you the next logical question: yes, that is the reason why the _Quorum of Twelve_ decided to assign me to the _Enterprise_. We believe in leaving the families together."

"In case we've discussed enough private matters for one day, perhaps we should give the captain the chance to debrief us about our first mission," Uhura added dryly.

"Thank you, Commander, that is very courteous of you," Kirk said in the same dry manner. "I wonder what would I do without you?"

_I'd like an answer to that question myself_, Uhura thought maliciously. There was no starship captain in the entire Fleet who would really appreciate the work and expertise of the communications section. Not even Captain Pike had been an exception from that rule.

Out loud, however, she only said, "Someone needs to take care of protocol, sir."

"How very true," Kirk nodded. "Well, our first assignment is to visit the planet Thimsel and see if everything is all right there. Does the name ring a bell for anyone?"

For a moment, Xon only reacted with an almost human frown, but then he answered promptly, without consulting the computer, relying on his eidetic memory alone.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Thimsel is the only Class M planet in a binary system called Iacta Tau. The system is situated in a still mainly unexplored sector of the Aloha Quadrant. Sixty point seven three standards years ago a Terran colony was founded on Thimsel, by highly educated technocrats, and the colony has regularly supplied various Federation planets with rare metal alloys."

"They _used to_ do that, Lieutenant," Kirk corrected. The contact with Thimsel was lost more than two standard years ago, and now we have to find out why."

"That sounds suspiciously like one of those stick-your-necks-into-a-noose-and-see-what-happens sort of missions," McCoy growled.

Kirk shook his head. "Dr. McCoy, could you perhaps be a little less… destructive when it comes to new missions?"

"I find you're asking a lot, Jim," the doctor riposted heatedly. "My head nurse is tinkering with her dissertation and can't hand me a goddamn hypospray without making a goddamn diagnosis, my entire sickbay has been turned into a goddamn computer centre, we have just got ourselves a kamikaze mission, and you're telling me _I should_ be less destructive? That's truly an uplifting speech if I've ever heard one."

"It wasn't my intention to 'uplift' you," Kirk replied flatly. "After all those years of duty under your belt, you should be mature enough to accept unpleasant tasks without letting them get to you."

McCoy's pale blue eyes were gleaming with anger. "Duly noted, _Captain_. You should take into consideration, though, that _I'm_ the one who'll have to perform the autopsies afterwards."

It happened rarely that the doctor would call the captain by his rank – only when he was _very_ angry – and Kirk, too, seemed more irritated than usual. Part of the general tension was without doubt due to the presence of the Deltan navigator. It always took some time to get used to work with a Deltan, and until then, overreacting was almost the norm.

But Sulu and Chekov also seemed to have a problem with the young, extremely _green_ executive officer. And everyone (Uhura silently admitted her own guilt in this particular matter) glared at poor Xon as if he were some sort of intruder. Another Vulcan should have been sitting in that chair for the senior staff of the _Enterprise_ in order to feel like old times. Of course, Xon's recent – and fairly spectacular – failure hadn't helped things.

Uhura didn't doubt that sooner or later, they'd get used to the presence of the newbies – even that of the JAG officer – just as Spock, Scotty and herself had gotten sued to Kirk after the departure of Captain Pike and his first officer, all those years ago. But it wouldn't be the same. Just as the bridge hadn't been the same without Chris Pike and Number One present. Never again.

"I'd like to know more about this solar system, Mr… I mean, Lieutenant Xon," Sulu said.

"It's not necessary to address me with my rank, sir," the young Vulcan replied calmly. "As you most likely know, on Vulcan, only the public names are used, even in official conversations. Honorary titles are not common. You can simply call me Xon."

"Does that mean Vulcans have more than just one name?" Chekov asked in surprise. That piece of information was indeed news for all of them.

"All Vulcans have four names," Xon explained readily, "but only the public names are such that non-Vulcans could pronounce them. Personal names are only known by family members, including bondmates. Clan and family names serve mostly administrative and social purposes."

"Well, Xon," Sulu wasn't that easily distracted from his original topic, "could you tell us some more about the Iacta Tau system?"

"Certainly, Mr. Sulu," the slender, fine-boned hands of the Vulcan glided over the keyboard; one of the huge holo-screens of the briefing room came alive, and the three-dimensional picture of a binary system appeared, its stellar bodies rotating and circling around each other in an intricate pattern. "As you can see for yourself, it's a binary system with two very different stars. It consists of altogether thirteen planets. One of them – Thimsel – is a regular Class M and inhabited; two others are close enough to be terraformed and become habitable themselves."

"What do we know about the colony itself?" Kirk asked.

"As I already said, it was founded sixty point seven three standard years ago," Xon stared at a certain point of the ceiling as if reading the answer from there. "The founder – and first colony leader – Dr. Haakon Thimsel, was an economics expert and had used to lead the Lunar Metal Factories for fifteen years prior the foundation. He volunteered for this mission because he wanted the chance to try out his economy support theories on new territory. In the following decades, thirty-seven large cargo transporters were dispatched to Thimsel, transporting mainly machinery, seed and more colonists (mostly mining engineers, metallurgy and agronomy experts). According to the last reports, the population of Thimsel counted fourteen thousand six hundred and thirty-two humans, six thousand ninety-seven Denebians, one thousand nine hundred and twenty-six Tellarites and seven hundred and seventy-nine Centaurians."

"An impressive colony," Kirk said thoughtfully, "and a fairly mixed one, too. That's… unusual for such recent foundations."

Xon nodded. "Correct, sir. But the original plan has already foreseen the terraforming and colonization of the other two more or less habitable planets. The Denebians and the Tellarites intended to use Thimsel as a springboard for further expansion.

"Do the living conditions match the needs of so profoundly different species? McCoy wondered.

Xon tilted his head to the side, which was the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug.

"Iacta Tau A is a white supergiant, quite similar to Deneb A, while Iacta Tau B is an orange dwarf, like 61 Cygni, the Tellarite primary. The three habitable planets revolve around the white supergiant at very different distances. K'rta 2, claimed by the Denebians, is the second world. The planned Tellarite colony, Gartov, was supposed to be built on the seventh planet, while Thimsel itself is the eighth. Those differences result in different climates, which make the respective planets ideal for each species involved."

"Are there any data about the colonisation having started on the other two planets?" Kirk asked.

Xon shook his head. "Negative, sir. It was reported that a small Denebian colony had already been set up on K'rta 2, with approximately four hundred Denebians working on the terraforming project, but other than that, there are no exact data known to us."

"Could direct contact with this Denebian terraforming station be established?"

"No, Captain. The colony does not have a subspace relay station. Interplanetary contacts are – _were_ – only possible through Thimsel."

"What about he other planets?" Sulu asked.

"None of them is capable of supporting humanoid life," Xon projected the holographic projections of the stellar bodies in question, one after another, and added a short but poignant description of each. "_Hero_: Class D, barely larger as an asteroid, no atmosphere, nickel/iron-silicate surface. _Iason, Medea _and _Xanthía_: three Class C planets, with extremely high surface temperatures, iron-silicate surface, the atmosphere consist of poisonous gasses and is very dense, almost fluid. The three others, _Gorgon, Helios _and _Agni_, are Class B gas giants: no solid surface, with a deducing atmosphere of methane.

"Sounds interesting," Chekov murmured, with all the enthusiasm of a former navigator.

"I would prefer a scientific mission with the same destination, though," Sulu added.

"Me, too," Kirk nodded, "but the Denebians are worried; and with a good reason, I'd say. This is – was – their first interstellar colonisation project. Ambassador H'T'Jera officially requested that we take one of her attachés with us, in case that someone should represent Denebian interests on the spot," he glanced at Wong. "We'll take Ambassador H'R'Krsna aboard on our way there, Chief. Please see that he's assigned proper quarters."

"Do we have sufficient data about the indigenous population of Deneb II?" Wong asked Xon. "I'd like to avoid any breaks of protocol."

"Certainly, Chief," the Vulcan replied, "although I am personally less than familiar with the field. I shall ask Dr. T'Pel to assist you."

"Do you known the lady, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked.

"She used to do research work in the Central library of Vulcana Regar for several months," Xon replied precisely, "and we have met occasionally at official events. I cannot assume to know her well, though; for that, our fields of research are way too different. Besides, she hails from one of the _Old Families_ – which I do _not_."

"And personal interests never play a role for you, do they?" McCoy commented sarcastically.

It was very obvious that Xon didn't understand the remark; that he _really_ didn't understand it, unlike Spock who'd only _pretended_ not to understand such hints, although he'd known that the others had been well aware of the fact that he _had_.

"We are both _bonded_, doctor," Xon said simply, as if that answer could have explained everything. Considering that they were discussing Vulcans, it actually _did_.

"Very well," Kirk said. "I think we've discussed everything of importance… and a great deal of trivial stuff. We're already on course to Thimsel. As usual, I'll expect regular reports from new staff members; other than that, business as usual. The four of your," he looked at the newbies, "are going to find out soon enough what _that_ means aboard the _Enterprise_. Dismissed."

* * *

As the section leaders rose and left the briefing room, Sulu jogged up to Uhura in the corridor.

"I assume you're already through your communications checklist?" he asked.

"Mainly, but not completely," Uhura admitted. "There are a few little details that need to be double-checked still. I don't like surprises. Why do you ask?"

"Well, the... Kobolians are planning a little get-together in the Officers' Lounge, to celebrate our reunion," Sulu explained. "It's going to start in an hour or so. Boomer promised to fetch Colonel Tigh. We've invited Rand, too; she's a homecomer as well, after all."

"I see," Uhura smiled. "Sounds like a good idea. By the way, Hikaru... is it true that you got married behind our backs? That's quite a surprise, I'd say."

Sulu grinned from ear to ear and managed to look both proud and a bit shy at the same time.

"Quite frankly, it has been a surprise for me as well," he admitted. "After Mandala and I had broken up, I never expected to find another woman who could match her... until I met Rigel. She… she's wonderful. So very different from Mandala: so calm and gentle, and yet so strong..."

"In other words, you're completely besotted," Uhura laughed.

Sulu shrugged. "Oh, I admit freely. I'm not the only one to fall fast and hard from a Kobolian, after all. I mean, I'd never have expected Charlie Masters to marry a man after having known him for only a couple of weeks or so. And all these relationships seem fairly stable, for some reason."

Uhura nodded. "True. Part of the reason might be the Kobolians' need for stability, I would think."

"Or our own," Sulu said thoughtfully. "We should be grateful, though. Space travellers like us could easily end up alone. And that's a sorry existence."

"It's one of the perils of our job," Uhura said. "I hope one day we're going to have ships with enough living space to take our families with us."

"Perhaps," Sulu said with a doubtful shrug. "_If_ the admirality ever realizes that we're not an interstellar army."

"Are we not?" Uhura asked, very seriously.

"I hope there's going to be less and less need for us to be a military force, so that we can do more exploration," Sulu changed topics. "Well, what do you say? Are you going to come to our little celebration?"

"I'll do my best, Hikaru. Should I run late, though, start without me. I'll join you as soon as possible."

* * *

Uhura had to work very hard to finish the final system checks within the hour. Fortunately, her second, the extremely capable Lieutenant Palmer offered her help as well as M'ress, and so she was only a few minutes late when she arrived at the Officers' Lounge – a U-shaped area at the stern end of the C-deck, which adjoined the rec deck and the officers' mess, among other facilities designed to give the crew a chance to relax after duty shifts.

The others were waiting for her in front of the huge viewports that offered a spectacular view of the ship's warp nacelles and the deep blackness of space beyond. Sulu, Chekov, Masters and Rand were wearing the practical new uniforms, while Rigel and Boomer had kept their Colonial gear, signalling that they belong to Colonel Tigh's staff. Rigel's was midnight blue with silver braiding, Boomer's, who used to be a combat pilot, tan with a brown jacket. Only Cassiopeia, Tigh's diplomatic attaché was wearing civilian clothes, but again, she _was_ civilian, in the literal sense of the word.

Sulu herded everyone to the table where the slightly oversized, Colonial-style chalices had been placed, and he began to speak.

"Welcome everyone," he said. "It's been a long time since we were together like this… erm, of course Chief Rand doesn't even _know_ everyone yet."

"I'll make up for it," Rand promised, and Sulu gave him a paternal grin – which, considering the rather diminutive age difference between the two of them, was a tiny bit ridiculous.

"Well, it's good to have you back with us anyway," he declared. "We've all missed you very much. Especially me."

"Hikaru..." lovely young Rigel, who looked more like an adolescent girl with her soft face and long, shiny braid than like the second navigator of a great starship – and a married woman at that – warned quietly.

Sulu laughed. "There's no need to be jealous! Janice and I used to be very good friends, back in our forgotten youth. She used to help me with my botanic experiments and took care of me like a mother."

"Well, taking care of you is something I might be talked into," Rigel replied thoughtfully. "But she's welcome to take over the part with the man-eating plants. I prefer my relationship with vegetables the other way round."

When the general laughter ceased, Cassiopeia produced a dusty bottle, seemingly out of nowhere. It was sealed and filled with some golden liquid.

"_Sire_ Adama sends his greetings," she told them, "and he gave us the last bottle of _ambrosa _left from the Old Colonies. It was his opinion that this mission would mean a milestone in the history of the New Colonies, since for the first time in a thousand _yahrens_, we are finally returning to peaceful space exploration. He wishes us luck… especially you, Colonel."

"I'm honoured," Tigh murmured, a little uncomfortably. Cassiopeia smiled at him

"In that case, you may open the bottle," she said.

Tigh obeyed readily. Opening a bottle of old-_ambrosa_ required not only skill but also considerable strength, and was thus traditionally a task for the highest-ranking male in any gathering. He poured everyone from the precious liquid – the last, irreplaceable gift from their old home that was now irrevocably lost – and old and new friends alike raised their chalices to a toast.

"Here is to our first mission," Rigel said.

"And to the Twelve Worlds," Masters added.

"To _Sire_ Adama and all the others who're rebuilding an ancient civilization from the scratch in Sector G-132," Uhura said quietly. "May their work be blessed."

"Amen," Chekov replied, clearly touched.

They emptied their chalices, and then Cassiopeia sealed the bottle again.

"When this journey comes to an end, I'll bring the bottle out again, and we'll drink the rest," she announced. "Let this be our pledge for a happy homecoming."

"Have you looked into the future?" Tigh teased.

Cassiopeia shook her head, smiling. "No, Colonel. I'm just being optimistic."

"Have you taken the perils of unknown into account?" Tigh asked.

"I always do, Colonel. Nonetheless, I believe that a little proper confidence is always a good starting point."

"Let's hope so," Masters glanced at her wrist chrono. "Thanks for the excellent drink. Unfortunately, I have to leave now. My duty shift begins in twenty minutes."

"Just like ours," Sulu said. "Well, let's meet again in five years, right here, then."

They all laughed and left, each one going after his or her own business. Tigh and Cassiopeia remained alone for a moment.

"_Sire_ Adama is glad that you've accepted this assignment, Colonel," she said.

"I'll do my best not to disappoint him," Tigh replied.

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) Meant is the Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times!"

(2) Yes, I know T'Pol served aboard Archer's _Enterprise_, okay? I just don't accept that series part of the true Trek universe. They have gone against established Trek canon so many times that they've lost the right to be counted part of it – in my eyes anyway.


	4. Chapter 4 The Ambassador

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

The names of the various Denebian species are from Diane Duane's book _My Enemy – My Ally_. The appearances, however, are mine. As before, descriptions of the refitted _Enterprise_ follow the blueprints of _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph. The Nanking colony is my invention.

And no, T'Pel isn't an original character. Remember, Vulcans are notoriously long-living. I won't give you any more clues… yet.

* * *

**CHAPTER 04 – THE AMBASSADOR **

"Computer; what's our ETA in the Deneb System?

"By current velocity 38 hours, 50 minutes.

"Computer; where can I find the quarters of Dr. T'Pel?"

"Deck E, level 4, section 3A."

"Computer; establish intercom-contact to Dr. T'Pel's quarters."

"Contact established."

"Good," Chief Wong activated her intercom unit. "Wong to T'Pel."

"Go ahead," a calm, slightly cool voice answered, and the face of the Vulcan woman appeared on the screen."

"I wanted to ask you for details about Denebian customs, Dr. T'Pel."

"I assume you mean the indigenous people of Deneb II?"

"Of course," Nancy Wong had had enough practice concerning the unnerving Vulcan accuracy due to her previous years aboard the _Enterprise_; Mr. Spock had been an excellent teacher in this area. "Lieutenant Xon told me you'd be the best-informed people in this field of expertise."

"He was certainly correct," T'Pel answered, without false modesty. "If you could come to my quarters, say at 15:6.3, I would be able to give you all information we have available at the moment."

"Excellent. Thank you for your help."

"No need for that. I am only doing my job. T'Pel out."

Once again, Nancy reminded herself that she shouldn't take such reactions personal from a Vulcan (to tell the truth, sometimes he found it damn hard), then she hurriedly went to finish the work she'd started before she had to appear at T'Pel's. Exactly 13 minutes, 26 seconds later, she shut off her terminal, and after another 32 seconds, she entered the turbolift.

"Deck D, level 4," she said, and the cabin started.

Four seconds before the appointed time she pushed the Vulcan sociologist's door buzzer. The door opened at once, and T'Pel came forth from the aft section of her quarters to greet her. According to Vulcan custom, she was wearing a widely cut, comfortable tunic and tight, stocking-like trousers.

"You are remarkably punctual, Chief Wong," she said as a form of greeting.

"I have learned to accommodate to the people with whom I work," Wong entered the room carefully, allowing her body to get used to the Vulcan gravitation and temperatures in it. "To be the personnel chief of a _Constitution_-class cruiser is a more or less social occupation. One needs a great deal of discretion not to step on any toes."

For a moment, T'Pel's face went as blank as only a truly bewildered Vulcan could look like. Wong could almost see as several folders in the biological computer commonly known as the Vulcan brain were opening.

"Ah," T'Pel finally said. "I see. A Terran expression."

"Exactly. I knew you'd figure out in no time."

Nancy Wong had only met T'Pel once – fleetingly, when the Vulcan scientist came aboard – and now she saw her first impression confirmed: T'Pel was dark, slender and amazing. Like most humans, Wong had automatically expected a pale, aristocratic figure before their first meeting, and the exotic sight she'd finally got was the exact opposite of her expectations. T'Pel had mahogany skin, and unlike most Vulcan women, she wore her thick, jet-black hair short, like a smooth iron cap. Her long, graceful neck and elegantly pointed ears made her resemble a light-footed gazelle, and her large, slightly slanted dark eyes and artistic movement only made the resemblance stronger.

"I hope the Vulcan environment doesn't bother you," T'Pel said, inviting her visitor further in with a gesture. "Most Terrans would find the time spent in my quarters decidedly uncomfortable."

"I'm not a Terran," Wong took the proffered seat; it was hard like all Vulcan seats. "I'm of Chinese origins, true, but I come from the Nanking colony.

"The one in the Tau Ceti System? If I remember correctly, it was one of the very first Earth colonies.

"That is correct. The first colonists were almost entirely Chinese people who fled Earth in the end of the 21st century because of the overcrowded cities. My great-, great-, great-, great and a few other times great-grandparents were among the founders of the colony."

"Nanking is a planet with a gravitation slightly above Terran standard, is it not?"

"1.09 G. Barely a difference. But the average temperatures are rather high: between 26 and 28 degrees Celsius. In the hot seasons they can rise above 40 degrees Celsius; aside from the mountain areas, of course."

"It might be interesting to visit your world one day," T'Pel said thoughtfully. "The socio-cultural development of such a homogenous culture must be fascinating. But you have come because of Deneb II."

"Indeed," Wong secretly enjoyed copying the Vulcan speech patterns. It was almost like playing theatre. When T'Pel realized it, she gave no sign.

"Very well," she said. "Deneb II, or as its inhabitants call it, K'rta, is the only planet in the Deneb System with an indigenous, civilized culture; I meant only the System of Deneb A, of course. It has a population of 1.8 billion people. They have more or less humanoid looks and have reached grade G on the Richter scale of cultures.

"Meaning: they have just developed the technology that makes them capable of interstellar space travel," Wong concluded.

"More or less," T'Pel nodded. "They have been a member of the Federation for quite some time, to use a sloppy expression, although they were not among its founders."

"_How_ humanoid are they exactly?"

"Well, I am no anthropologist," T'Pel replied, "but for me, they look like Terrans, save the colour of their skin, the shape of their eyes and the structure of their foreheads. In my opinion, they possess a high grade of natural aesthetics. Judge yourself."

She switched her viewscreen on and displayed a file from the historic databases of Memory Alpha. The picture showed a slender, broad-shouldered man: according to the scale on the bottom, he could be 165-170 centimetres tall. His skin was pale blue, paler even that that of the Andorians. He had short, blue-grey hair and very youthful looking features. The line of his nose was continued in two fine ridges that shielded the inner corners of his eyes. There was a crystal shard imbedded in both his temples.

"The shard is implanted by every Denebian right after they reach sexual maturity," T'Pel expected. "It is some kind of meditation crystal that helps them focus their mental abilities. Denebians are partially telepathic, but they can only use this ability with the help of those crystals and in short range."

"They do seem a bit decadent," Wong said, as the Denebian man seemed somehow child-like and immature to her.

"That is a widely-spread misconception," T'Pel answered. "Denebians are very calm and friendly by nature. Some theories say it comes from the fact that their original ancestors had been reptilians, although they've developed into a warm-blooded species somewhere along the line of their complicated evolution process. Their culture is very old, and aside from art and science they kept archaic martial arts and a survival test that could be compared with the Vulcan _kahs-wan_. Besides, they still create their incredible architecture without the help of machines… well, mostly.

Nancy Wong, who had said pictures of Denebian cities, was impressed. "How is that possible?"

"They are said to possess impressive telekinetic abilities that are somehow linked to the natural radiation of the planet's core. There is no proof for that theory, but the Denebians believe it. Which is the reason why they have hesitated to dare the step into interstellar space for so long. They are afraid to lose their paranormal abilities, which would be a serious break with their culture and the way of life they have led so far."

"Have those concerns been confirmed?"

"Not to my knowledge; at least not until the most recent reports. It is possible that the core radiation does play a certain role, but a lot less important one than the Denebians would like to believe. This fact weakens an ancient myth, but it also means the renaissance of a very old and impressive culture."

"And how do they call themselves?"

"Well, there are four different subspecies on Deneb II; the only visible difference is in the shades of their skin colour. According to old lore, these differences were more significant a few millennia ago. However, in the meantime they have intermarried so often that all differences are of cultural nature today. So, the most common among them are the _Klaha_; they are considered by other races the typical Denebians. This picture, too, shows a Klaha, by the way. The _Eyrenii_ are somewhat taller in average, their skin is a darker blue, and they are known as the best artisans and diplomats. The _!hew_," T'Pel here made a sound Wong wouldn't have been able to reproduce for the life or her, "are fragile, relatively fair-skinned – like the Andorians – and they are said to be interested in all things concerning science and technology. Finally, the _Deirr_: they are stocky, very strong, rather dark-skinned, and they make up the agrarian population, mostly. The four species don't have a common name."

"Can you tell me something about Ambassador H'R'Krsna himself?"

"Of course. He's an Eyrenii; he comes from a very old family with great reputation but practically no influence. That's typical for Eyrenii clans: they are noble, well-respected, highly gifted – but at the same time, they have no wealth or political influence. Nevertheless, they are often elected as diplomats because they can represent the interests of their world effectively and persuasively."

"Are there any particular rituals or protocols that have to be taken into consideration?"

"Barely. However, you shouldn't proffer a Denebian your hand – that is understood as an invitation to sexual activities. The greeting is a slow bow with clasped hands while they say 'welcome'. The same is by farewells, only that in that case you are supposed to say 'blessing'."

"That's indeed easy. Any dietary requirements?"

"None. Denebians prefer vegetables but they are not entirely vegetarian. You can offer fish, for example. As for beverages, you are free to offer anything you want. Denebians drink all sorts of alcohol, although – due to their reptilian ancestors – they are completely immune against the toxic side effects."

"Why do they drink it at all, then?" Wong wondered. "Usually, people _intend_ to suffer said side effects."

The remark was intended as a joke. T'Pel, however, proving the complete lack of humour in the Vulcan psychological make-up, answered in all seriousness.

"I don't have any exact data to my disposal in this matter," she said. "Presumably, they are either fond of the taste, or they appreciate the social aspect of consuming alcoholic beverages." Seeing Wong's smile, she frowned in obvious confusion. "Should I have said something… humorous?"

"Oh, no, at least not intentionally; of that I'm certain," Chief Wong tried very hard to keep a straight face. "It's just… I keep forgetting that Vulcans tend to take rhetoric questions literally. I intended to make a joke myself; unfortunately, I have addressed the wrong person with it."

"I see," T'Pel touched her fingertips together with the characteristic Vulcan gesture. "Theoretically, I should have recognized your… joke for what it was. However, my mentors have always pointed out that I cannot consider myself as a true sociologist under the age of fifty Vulcan years, due to the lack of experience. Apparently, they were right."

"It's only a matter of time, I guess," Wong said comfortingly, even though T'Pel didn't really make the impression to be in need of comfort. "You haven't spent much time with such emotional creatures yet, have you?"

"It depends on your interpretation of 'much time'," T'Pel replied thoughtfully. "It is true that I have promoted from the Vulcan Academy of Sciences only a year ago and have been doing theoretical research since then. But I was, in fact, born on Terra and have spent my childhood there. My parents used to work for several joint scientific programs there."

"Interesting. How did you end up on the _Enterprise_, of all ships?" Chief Wong asked before adding hurriedly, "In case this question won't violate your privacy, of course."

"Not at all," the Vulcan answered calmly. "You are the personnel officer here; it is your right to know things about the crew other people would not know. Besides, it is no secret. My father, Lieutenant Commander Sonak, is a Starfleet officer and serves in a dual position aboard the new _Intrepid_: as First Officer and as science officer. I could have got an assignment on his ship. However, I wanted to go to the borders, where new races and new civilizations can be discovered. At this time, the _Enterprise_ is the only _Constitution_-class ship to begin a brand new mission to previously uncharted territory. I applied officially, like everyone else – although I must admit that my father _did_ support my application."

"He must have very good connections to the Old Man, then," Wong remarked. "Captain Kirk doesn't like civilians aboard, and usually he's well able to get what he wants."

"Admiral Nogura has always been a sponsor of my father," T'Pel answered calmly, revealing that she knew all too well who was meant by the popular but quite disrespectful nickname. "When Commander Spock retired, my father was offered Spock's expected position, the command chair of the research vessel _USS Grissom_. Admiral Nogura was most disappointed when my father refused."

"He _refused_?" Wong asked, completely bewildered. The _Grissom_ was the newest research vessel, equipped with the latest inventions of technology; the most revered captains (more than one of them wearing the rank of a Commodore) bent backwards in desperate efforts to get that very command chair.

T'Pel tilted her head to the side, with that typical Vulcan gesture Wong had seen by Spock so often.

"My father found that he was not old and experienced enough to accept so much responsibility just yet. Besides, he is first and foremost a scientist. Accepting the burden of a command of his own would barely leave him any time for research. And that would not be in accord with his personal agendas."

"Oh, I can certainly understand _that_," Wong nodded. "I've just been promoted to Lieutenant J.G. – and will most likely retire wearing the same rank insignia – but I'm absolutely content with it. It's not my ambition to become a commanding officer, although the administrative area would offer me relatively good chances to climb the career ladder."

"I had the impression that humans had an almost instinctive urge to assume positions of power and influence," T'Pel said.

"We of the Nanking colony are Tan-Daoists. Power doesn't play a significant role for us. Above all else, we want to achieve power over ourselves, which takes approximately a lifetime at best, so that we don't have the time or energy to hunger for any other kinds of power."

"I see that I shall have to visit your world one day," T'Pel said. "Are you the only one of your kind aboard?"

Wong laughed. "In fact, I'm the only one in the whole Starfleet," she said. "Our people believe that one doesn't need to cross the Galaxy to find the Dao. If one can achieve the most important thing in life while sitting peacefully at home, why should one undertake long journeys at all?"

"You must have different insights, though. After all, you have been in Starfleet for... how long exactly?"

"This is my ninth year in service. Yes, I've always been a little different. Perhaps due to the fact that my mother was an off-worldler: a sociologist who only came to Nanking from Kanton/Terra some thirty years ago to study our teachings. She fell in love with my father and married him, but she was never able to completely absorb the way of thinking there. And all of us seven children have turned out a little different. We are curious, more restless, tainted with wanderlust. I'm the oldest, and so far the only one who dared to act on it. But I'm sure that at least some of my siblings will follow me in time. Do you have any siblings?"

"Yes and no," T'Pel answered thoughtfully. "My twin brother, Sengar, has moved to the desert of Gol a few years ago, which means that he is practically dead for us now. The _kolinahru_ are not allowed to keep any connections with their relatives, not even mental ones. That is why Sengar is not marked in our files."

"Do you regret his choice?" Wong asked, risking a typical Vulcan lecture about the illogical nature of regret.

T'Pel, however, reacted differently.

"We used to be very close," she replied simply. "You must know that twins are a rare thing on Vulcan, and they have an exceptionally strong mental bond that forms itself in the womb already. When Sengar chose to go to Gol and cut our bond, I suffered a deep shock, a mental trauma not unlike. The healers treated me for nearly a year. But I am beyond that now."

That might be true. Nevertheless, Nancy Wong had the irrational urge to embrace the young Vulcan woman and murmur comforting nonsense into that pointed ear of hers. Of course she'd never do that. T'Pel must have felt her intention, though, because she gave her a slight smile of the Vulcan sort: the one that only appeared in her eyes.

"You Terrans are so generous with your compassion that it almost makes me feel ashamed," she said, without the slightest trait of irony.

"Isn't shame illogical?" Wong teased gently.

Once again, T'Pel tilted her head to the side. Her dark eyes shone brightly but ironically, but this mild irony was directed against herself.

"Of course it is illogical," she said, "but not even Vulcans are perfect."

"That's a relief to hear," Wong giggled. "Mr. Spock seemed to have a different opinion about _that_."

"Pride," T'Pel said gravely, "is illogical as well."

At that, Nancy Wong laughed heartily, and T'Pel laughed, too, although only with her eyes. Then they parted, and the personnel officer returned to her office with the feeling that she'd just made a new friend.

* * *

Lieutenant Pavel Andreievich Chekov, the security chief of the USS _Enterprise_, checked the honour guard lined up to greet Denebian ambassador H'R'Krsna one last time. This was the very first time his men – _his_ men – were part of a diplomatic reception; it'd have been terrible if Captain Kirk wouldn't find everything in best order with them. But not even his keen – and worried – eye could find any fault: the new dress uniforms looked as if they had been painted onto the officers, the phasers stuck into the belts with micrometer precision, and the guards stood at attention, as Dr. McCoy liked to say, "straight like a candle".

On the left, three humans: the lanky, broad-shouldered Stephen Garrovick, the big, muscular, dark-skinned Mohammed Jahma and the small, seemingly fragile Keiko Tamura, with her cherry blossom face and her deadly fast hand. On the right, three extraterrestrials: Lamia Ar'rhaniach, with her antennae peeking out from her cotton-soft white hair, and with those shockingly green eyes in her blue face; a Centaurian, Zalan Su'chay, barely different from a human at first sight, and Sdan, a slender, quiet Rigelian who – like most Vulcanoids – was a lot stronger than he looked.

The Denebian shuttle had docked in the meantime, and now the computer was telling all interested parties that the hangar deck was being pressurized and the atmosphere had reached the required mix. Kirk gestured to Chekov who pushed the buttons of manual control and the slide doors opened with the usual whoosh. Stephen Garrovick blew the traditional, ear-splitting melody on his pipe, and the Denebian ambassador could finally leave the docking corridor.

He was a slender male, with turquoise skin; most likely a lot older than he looked for the human eye. The left shoulder and the high collar of his greyish blue tunic was adorned with a patch of black leather, and a similar strip ran across his chest from the right to the left, from the collar to the seam of the tunic, like the strap of an old-fashioned tricorder. In the front corner of the black leather shoulder patch there were three deltoids and a thin strip of some silvery material, like rank insignia. On his left breast, he wore an ivory-looking label with his name, written in Standard. On his right breast, at the same height, the symbol of the Denebian Confederation could be seen: a round emblem, adorned with a blue and a white gem. Black trousers and sandals completed his official garment.

As T'Pel had foretold, the ambassador had more or less humanoid looks; what's more, he was positively handsome, even by human measures. At first sight, only the colour of his skin and the differences in the bone structure of his head stood out. The line of his unusually short nose continued in the slanted lines of his brows that shadowed the inner corner of his clear, grey eyes more than the human measure, and his very high, oval forehead had the same pattern as the Trilobites in prehistoric Earth. His hairline began on the top of his head, and his slicked-back hair was more greyish than his skin, almost silver. All in all, he looked more like a young clerk from some alien space agency than a diplomat on an important mission.

He was apparently used to the slight confusion caused by his appearance because he smiled and took the initiative at once. Folding his very slender, long-fingered hands, he bowed slowly, and greeted the gathering in a completely accent free Standard.

"Greetings from the government of Deneb II," he said in a pleasant tenor. "I'm honoured to travel with you."

Kirk shook off his surprise and awkwardly returned the Denebian gesture of greeting.

"Welcome aboard, Ambassador. May I introduce your colleagues? This is _Sire_ Tigh, representing the Twelve Worlds of the Kobol sector."

This being an official reception, Tigh was wearing the wide-cut, flowing white robes of a Councillor. He repeated the gesture of greeting with surprising ease (Kirk wished he could move around with the same dignity), and then he introduced Cassiopeia who was standing on his side.

"My diplomatic attaché, Cassiopeia of Gemini."

"I'm honoured to make your acquaintance," the ambassador bowed to the blonde woman in the revealing evening dress. "Greetings, Cassiopeia of Gemini."

"Our personnel officer, Chief Wong," Kirk continued the introductions, and Nancy Wong bowed in the most traditional way of her people. "She will look after your well-being as long as you are aboard the _Enterprise_."

"Call me if you are in the need of anything," Wong encouraged the diplomat, who inclined his head as a sign of gratitude.

"And this is Dr. T'Pel, a historian and sociologist from Vulcan," Kirk finished. "She will work with you during this mission."

"I welcome your choice," the ambassador replied, and to everyone's surprise, he raised a slender blue hand to the traditional Vulcan _ta'al_ salute. "Live long and prosper, venerable T'Pel."

T'Pel's only reaction to the Denebian diplomat's familiarity to Vulcan rites was a raised eyebrow. She folded her hands, bowed, and replied in Denebian. "H'r-ien, srr H'R'Krsna."

Now it was the ambassador's turn to be surprised. "You speak our language?"

"I speak many languages," T'Pel replied simply, "although I was told that my accent is too hard for proper Denebian. I haven't managed to pronounce your multiple consonants softly enough so far.

"That would hardly be possible for you," the diplomat admitted. "For that, you'd need a forked Denebian tongue."

"Do you mean it in the morphological or in the rhetorical sense?" Cassiopeia asked, and everyone laughed. Everyone but the Vulcans, of course.

Well, it would probably ruin my reputation as a diplomat to stick out my tongue right at the reception," Krsna grinned. "As far as I know is a gesture like that considered an insult on Terra. Therefore, you must believe my word of honour, at least for the time being, that Denebians have, indeed, a forked tongue, like Terran snakes or lizards. We are a reptiloid species, after all... more or less."

"Interesting," Cassiopeia commented. "Goes the similarity so far that you'd shed your skin, too?"

Kirk paled when he heard the light-hearted question, foreseeing terrible diplomatic complications already. Krsna, however, didn't seem bothered by Cassiopeia's curiosity.

"I haven't experienced anything like that by myself yet," he replied in the same light-hearted manner, "but I'm still fairly young, and our elders love to keep an air of mystery about them where their vital functions are considered. Best you ask me again in thirty standard years – perhaps I'll be able to give you a proper answer then."

Kirk felt the necessity to interfere, before the entire situation got out of control and turned into some sort of TriVid sitcom.

"We have assigned one of the V.I.P. quarters to you, Ambassador. Chief Wong will show you the way. We're seeing us in the evening, at the reception. If you'd excuse me now… duty calls."

"Of course, Captain," the Denebian nodded politely. "I won't hinder you in the fulfilling of your duties. _Sire_ Tigh, would it be possible that you told me something about your peoples? We've received the official Starfleet reports, but I'd be interested in more details."

"I'd be honoured, Ambassador," Tigh replied, "but it's really all right if you simply call me Colonel Tigh, like everyone else."

"As you wish," Krsna said cooperatively as they walked towards the turbolift. "May I ask what's the difference – if, indeed, there is one?"

"Well, _Sire_ is a title every member of the _Quorum_ is given due to their office. My rank is something I've achieved through personal efforts."

"And you're proud of it, I assume?" It wasn't really a question. Tigh shrugged.

"Sort of. The truth is, I haven't chosen to become a warrior – it was a necessity. However, my rank signals that I've served my people well and faithfully, and _that_'s something I'm proud of, yes."

"How comes, then, that you've accepted a diplomatic assignment, then?" Krsna asked. "It has been my experience that professional soldiers are seldom interested in diplomacy."

"That's correct," Tigh admitted. "But we have peace now… for the first time since a thousand yahrens… I mean years. The _Quorum_ has selected me because I'm used to the dangers of space; and I've been assigned to this particular ship because my spouse serves aboard the _Enterprise_."

"How interesting!" Krsna cried out in delight. "I hope you'll introduce me to your lady?"

"If that's your wish," Tigh suppressed a grin at the enthusiasm of the Denebian.

"Most definitely," Krsna said eagerly. "You see, Colonel, this is my very first deep space mission, and I'd like to learn as much about humans as possible."

"In that case, you should ask for Cassiopeia's assistance," Tigh suggested. "She's absolved a specific training considering human social behaviour."

"Oh, really?" Krsna's eager face mirrored delightful interest; deep blue interest, as Nancy Wong put it later, and the colour and the expression together were so funny that she could barely suppress a giggle. "Well, Lady Cassiopeia, in that case you'll have to put up with my company on a regular basis, I'm afraid."

"I'd be happy to help, Ambassador," Cassiopeia smiled. "You can visit me on the rec deck or in the Officers' Lounge any time you want. Right now, however, I must leave you in Chief Wong's capable hands. She'll help you to settle in."

"Actually, I'd hoped that we can talk some more," Krsna said, addressing his words at Tigh.

The colonel shook his head. "Unfortunately, at the moment it's not possible. But Captain Kirk is holding an official dinner to honour you tonight. We'll meet there again."

"Very well," the Denebian diplomat gave in, albeit still a bit unwillingly. "I'll give myself in your hands then, Chief."

"This way, your excellence," Nancy Wong gestured towards the turbolift, shepherding her prey into the cabin.

Cassiopeia gave Tigh a long, half-suspicious, half-conspiratory look. "I didn't know you're such a busy man, Colonel."

"As a matter of fact, I'm not," Tigh admitted. "But I had to shake off his blue excellence somehow, so that poor Wong could do her job. She's more on her back than spoiling that curious youngling, after all. I wish I had half as much work aboard."

"You don't really know what to do here, do you?" Cassiopeia asked.

Tigh shrugged, pulling the wide sleeves of his robe tighter, so that they won't sweep the floor.

"That's a matter of perspective. I don't have anything to do _officially_, of course, but twenty-four centares a day wouldn't be enough to fill the gaps of my knowledge. I've taken a few curses on Earth, of course, mostly in the area of subspace navigation and the likes, but that was still far from enough. What I _don't_ know about Starfleet technology would fill several tomes of a lexicon."

"What are the actual topics you're working on?"

"Command curses of the Starfleet Academy. I've already qualified myself as a navigator and a helmsman – in fact, I was told to be the best human astronavigational mathematician they've ever met – but in order to be qualified for a command chair of a warp-capable vessel, I still have to prove myself in a couple of other areas."

"Securing yourself another job, in case politics won't work out?" Cassiopeia teased.

"I fervently hope that the Libran folk will chose someone else for the next cycle, so I could finally get my own command," Tigh replied seriously. "I've been working for that all my life."

"If anyone, you certainly deserved it, Colonel," she nodded. "But what if you get re-elected?"

"I'll bow to the will of my people," Tigh replied, depressed.

* * *

Nancy Wong showed the Denebian ambassador around the VIP quarters, explained him everything he needed to know, then she made attempts to leave.

"Oh, do you really have to leave already?" Krsna asked sadly. "Everyone seems so eager to get rid of me."

He was saying this with such an innocent, almost child-like sadness, that Wong's heart went out to him.

"It's not about you, Ambassador," she explained. "But people have to do their work here. Be patient till the evening; you'll get introduced to half the crew on the party."

"I like parties," Krsna said in a slightly complaining tone, "but I'd actually prefer to get the people know personally, first."

"That's what computers are for," Wong pointed out. "There is a great deal of general data about all senior officers that's not classified. I assume you're familiar with Federation-issue computers, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," Krsna answered, just a little bit indignantly. "That doesn't mean, however, that I'd like to spend all my free time in their company. I'm not a Vulcan, you know. I prefer living beings to machines."

Wong shrugged. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. Right now, you barely have another choice."

"All right," Krsna sighed, with such a deep blue disappointment on his face that Wong had to bit her lips in order to withhold her laughter. "I'll see you tonight, then."

"Afraid not," she said. "You'll have to do without my presence."

"Why?"

"I'm not a department head," Wong explained. "I'm just the quartermaster."

She bowed in Denebian fashion and left the company-loving diplomat alone. The man was old enough, after all, and she had things to do.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5 Shadows and Memories

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

As before, descriptions of the refitted _Enterprise_ follow the blueprints of _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph.

The telepathic _New Mankind_ movement is actually Gene Roddenberry's invention. No, really. It can be found in the novelization of _Star Trek – The Motion Picture_, written by the Great Bird of the Galaxy himself. He was the one who got the later Vice-Admiral Lori Ciana (one of the characters getting killed in TMP's transporter accident) briefly married to Kirk and made her a member of the NM movement. I kid you not!

Originally, this was part of the previous chapter, but it ran so long that I decided to break it in two.

* * *

**CHAPTER 05 – SHADOWS AND MEMORIES**

Every single member of the crew, from the Captain to the lowliest enlisted personnel, agreed that the addition of the V.I.P lounge to the rec deck (originally containing a few holochambers only) had been the best idea the refitters of the ship could have come up, no matter the amount of thought they might have given the whole refitting process.

This doughnut-shaped area – that comprised most of Deck C and had approximately the same diameter as the main bridge – was probably the most pleasant place on the entire ship. Its special kitchen was capable of serving VIPs (or crewmembers with unusual dietary requirements) cuisine that wasn't available thorough the ship's default food processor units. The dining area surrounded the kitchen and extended to the outer hull, with both booth and table sitting available. It had six food and beverage units and was open to all ship's personnel, functioning as the mess hall, unless an official reception was being held – like in this very evening.

Wall-mounted viewscreens simulated windows in the mess hall, providing three-dimensional images of the space outside. These screens were also capable of displaying TriVid programmes or communications from Starfleet Command. They were meant to be used when the captain saw the necessity of sharing visual records with the entire crew – in such cases all off-duty crewmembers were expected to hurry to the rec deck.

The Officers' Lounge was located at the stern end of Level Three. The four huge viewports here were the only real windows on the entire ship, and off-duty personnel often came her to admire the real time view of space. Unless the ship was in warp transit, of course, in which case the transparent aluminium planes automatically became frosted, as everyone but Vulcans and Deltans found the sight of distorted space highly disturbing.

On both sides of the viewports, small planter areas displayed a fine selection of plants from several Federation worlds, and a small pool contained brightly coloured tropical fish. The rarest and most exotic species was the Talosian singing plant – the _Enterprise_ was the proud owner of four from the two dozen bushes existing anywhere outside of Talos IV.

Just forward of this section of the lounge was a bar and a privacy area, restricted to officers only. Two large viewscreens – like the ones in the mess hall – were mounted in the stern bulkhead of the lounge, allowing all VIPs or senior officers access to the full range of ship's communications services. This arrangement made it possible to use the privacy area as conference room for negotiations when only a small number of negotiating partners was involved. The viewscreens also provided a full exterior and interior tour of the _Enterprise_ – with the exception of sensitive areas, of course. A snack bar on the starboard side of the lounge offered a food and beverage unit and two tables for personnel seating.

All in all, it was an elegant and functional place, fully equipped not only to provide everything a multi-species crew of five hundred might need, but also to match the demands of alien dignitaries of all kinds. How could it be otherwise? This was the _Enterprise_, after all. Even though it wasn't officially the flagship of Starfleet, it was perhaps the most famous vessel of the Federation, and fame came with certain obligations.

Captain Kirk had chosen the Officers' Lounge to be the location where the reception honouring the Denebian ambassador should take place. Long tables with snacks and beverages were placed opposite the viewports, while freshly prepared, hot dishes could be consumed in both rooms of the privacy area. With all the senior officers and most of the science department heads present, any other solution would have the available space hopelessly crowded. The lounge was large, considering that it was situated aboard a starship, but living space was limited, even aboard the _Enterprise_.

Cassiopeia was more in her element than she'd been in _yahrens_. For the first time since the destruction, she was finally able to put all those endless curses concerning social behaviour, human psychology and anatomy and diplomatic interference she'd attended to in her youth to good use. Now she could show what winning the highest academic honours of Old Gemini's most rewarded school of religious teaching had meant. Or the awarding of the golden fringe, which she had been allowed to wear along the neck and hem lines of her street-robe, and which required Gemonese men to treat her with special dignity.

She could not expect these well-meaning strangers to understand what _socialation_ had meant – what it still meant – in Gemonese society. That it had been an honourable profession, back on their old world, practiced with the blessing of the elders for over four thousand _yahrens_. That being selected as a senior _socialator_ and the accompanying privilege of teaching promising young candidates would mean high social status on New Gemini again, one day. But until she could return to her old vocation, at least she could show them what her thorough training was worth.

Wearing her best evening dress to honour the occasion – a shoulder-free, cinnamon-coloured, one-piece clinging outfit that threatened to become transparent in the right light – she strolled through the large room. So far, everything was running smoothly. Her two assistants-on-duty, the lovely, blonde Yeoman Theresa Ross and Yeoman Tonia Barrows, of whom… _interesting_ rumours were coursing all over the ship, did excellent work. They were right on schedule, which meant a timely end of the gathering, to the not-so-secret relief of both captain and on-duty personnel.

After the usual toasts and diplomatic platitudes everyone had attacked the tables to pile food onto their plates and now the festive crowd was scattered in smaller groups all over the lounge and the private areas, depending on the actual topic of the various conversations. Ambassador Krsna had snatched Colonel Tigh right away, of course, to drill him for details about the rebuilding of the Twelve Worlds. Uhura joined them, of course, as well as the Deltans, whose government was heavily involved in said rebuilding, on several of the New Colonies.

T'Pel and Xon, currently the only two Vulcans aboard, were drinking tea in quiet agreement, commenting Sulu's lengthy botanical excursion with the occasional, polite nod. A third group, consisting of Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy and Chief Engineer Scott, was standing in the snack bar. If their facial expression – and the alarming speed with which the alcohol was evaporating from their glasses – was any indication, they were already in the mourning phase of their 'grand olde times', as Mr. Scott liked to put it.

Mr. Chekov was having a tentative conversation with the attractive but slightly intimidating Lieutenant M'Botabwe. Security and Justice had to work hand in hand, especially aboard a starship that operated outside of charted territory, so this was a good sign. It wouldn't do any good, however, if the lawyer continued frightening the living Hades out of the young security chief. Cassiopeia made a mental note to talk to Lieutenant M'Botabwe about it later. She seemed too intelligent _not_ to notice Chekov's insecurities, and it could cause great harm if she used that knowledge about him in a situation that would make them find themselves on opposite sides.

Besides, Chekov didn't deserve that. He _did_ have the gift to become a good commanding officer, given enough time. He was just still too young and nervous.

Only one person had withdrawn from the gathering, all but hiding in a corner seat of the sunken observation area, turning a long, untouched glass of Aldebaran whiskey around in his hand: Willard Decker. The young man was staring out at the long stripes of distorted starlight in outer space. He must have ordered one of the viewports to become partially transparent again, and was now contemplating a view that under normal circumstances he'd have found unnerving.

Cassiopeia walked around a group of science officers who were animatedly discussing the most likely candidates to win the next Nobel and Zee Magnees-prizes and descended the flat steps that led to the observation area. Past experience told her that the first officer was in serious need of a compassionate listener, and who could be better at that than a highly trained _socialator_ whose very job was to help people in emotional trouble?

"Dissing the party, Lieutenant Commander?" she asked neutrally, taking the empty seat on the young man's side.

"Don't feel like celebrating today," Decker all but growled, without as much as a glance in her direction. He certainly didn't look like somebody who was just about to pour out his very heart to a complete stranger. But Cassiopeia knew better what he really needed. Dealing with difficult clients was one of her special gifts.

"Oh?" she replied in the same conversational manner. "Tell me, Lieutenant Commander, are you always this moody or did you get up with the wrong foot today?"

Decker murmured something unintelligible and glared into his untouched drink dismissively. Cassiopeia waited, silently and patiently. Sooner or later, that treatment usually loosened peoples' tongues. This time was no exception.

"Well, if you _have_ to know, although I can't see why, this was supposed to be my wedding day," the young man finally bit out through clenched teeth.

Cassiopeia often (and rightly) praised herself of not being easily surprised or shocked. _Socialators_ saw and heard more than average people and grew used to strange things. At the moment, however, she nearly choked on her drink.

"And why is it _not_?" she asked, after a moment of shocked silence.

Decker nodded, his pale, young face bitter and disappointed.

"My… fiancée left a year and a half ago to visit an old friend of her family on some remote colony world. She never returned."

"Any idea where she could be now?" Cassiopeia asked. Decker shook his head.

"None. She never told me who this old friend was and where he lived. I was able to track her route as far as Antares, but from there on, she continued her journey with a private company – destination unknown. Sure, they had filed a flight path, but that didn't help me much. Their trail just got lost after a few stops on the way. I haven't heard of her since then."

For a while Cassiopeia remained silent. Decker's behaviour clearly indicated that this was the first time he'd spoken about his loss to anyone. She didn't want to urge him on. The young man needed time to deal with his pain at his own pace.

"What was she like?" she asked after a lengthy pause.

Decker raised his head, slowly, almost reluctantly. This was the first time he actually _looked_ at her during their entire conversation.

"Danielle? Well, she was of French origins but born on the Rigel VI colony already. Her parents died when she was absolving college level trade school on Earth, and she joined the same group of the so-called _New Mankind_ where my mother and I were members at that time. That's how we actually met."

Cassiopeia pulled a face. She _had_ made contact with the _New Mankind_ movement, of course, whose followers formed some sort of telepathic group consciousness – as a _socialator_ and a diplomatic attaché, it was part of her duties to become familiar with the most important human religions, philosophies and social movements – but wasn't terribly impressed by them. The same model that worked just fine in a Deltan clan marriage, for example, had two different – but equally unfortunate – results when tried by humans. Either a particularly strong and charismatic group leader enslaved the rest of the _unit_, as they called their groups, mentally, or – if they were on about the same telepathic level – thy lost all creativity and initiative. Thy simply submerged in their pleasantly lukewarm mental mud bath and lost interest in everything else. Boomer called them _smarmy borays_ who were afraid to accept responsibility, and at times Cassiopeia was seriously tempted to use that fairly unprofessional epithet, too. With an attitude like that, the _New Mankind_ practically begged to be subjudged by every aggressor that came their way.

Seeing her expression, Decker gave her a thin smile.

"Oh, I agree with you completely," he said. "This… _thing_ just doesn't seem to be the right one for humans, does it? But Danielle didn't have the strength to deal with the unexpected death of her parents – it was a mining incident – on her own, and she hoped to find support in our _unit_," he all but spat that last word.

"May I ask why do _you_ reject the model?" Cassiopeia asked, now truly curious. This conversation promised to give her unexpected insight into a movement she hadn't succeeded to infiltrate yet.

Decker made a helplessly angry gesture.

"They called in a human being the very thing that _makes_ him or her human," he replied. "The hunger for knowledge, the curiosity, the individuality. If it were up to them, we'd stop all our scientific research project and just sit around, staring at our navels for the rest of our lives. The most radical groups even demand the unilateral disarmament of Starfleet and that we severe all our ties but trade agreements to the rest of the Federation and only care for our own business in the future."

"Some kind of 'back-to-Earth' movement?" Cassiopeia guessed.

"In a manner, yes," Decker nodded. "The funny thing is, they don't seem to understand how harebrained the mere idea is to begin with. I mean, the majority of mankind doesn't even live on Earth anymore."

"Has your fiancée shared these ideas?" Cassiopeia asked.

Decker shook his head. "No; and most of them aren't quite that blended yet, either. I think what the more… rational circles pursue is, before everything else, control."

"I believe I can see the advantage of that," Cassiopeia said thoughtfully. "The more people belong to such units, the bigger part of society are they able to control. And control means power. A _lot_ of power. Yes, I can see where that could lead."

"Yeas, that's what this is all about," Decker agreed. "And that is also the reason, I believe, why they're all so… xenophobic."

"What do you mean?" Cassiopeia frowned.

"Have you never wondered what it's always humans who join the movement?" Decker asked. "It's true that our telepathic abilities can be activated by the right training, but they are usually not very effective. Most humans are barely able to keep up a continuous telepathic bond within their own _unit_. Would the movement accept really strong telepathic species, like Deltans of Vulcans, their leaders won't be able to keep their plans secret any longer, not even from their simple followers. Each _unit_ is only as strong as its strongest telepath, and no human could ever match himself with a Deltan. Not to mention that Vulcans would never open themselves to a group of humans voluntarily."

"So you believe that the true power behind the movement has something special in planning?" Cassiopeia asked.

Decker nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"I'm sure they have," he replied. "I'm just not sure _what_ it is. Perhaps were those plans back when I still belonged to a _unit_ not completely worked out yet. It was six years ago, after all, before I specialized for my major field at the Academy."

"Are there many Starfleet officers who belong to the _New Mankind_?" Cassiopeia couldn't help but be a little surprised. Somehow she expected the members of the Federation Fleet more… practical than to fell for something like that.

"Not many," Decker shook his head, "and the ones who've joined are usually hapless somnambulists, working in the lower levels of the diplomatic or administrative area. Like Commodore Lori Ciana at Starfleet Command."

"They'd still have some sort of insight into secret operations, though," Cassiopeia said. "Personally, I find that thought more than just a bit unsettling."

Decker waved off her concerns.

"They're harmless," he said. "Grass eaters, every single one of them. I only know one of the men in the background who could become really dangerous. One with too much power in his hands already, and _not_ because of his role in the movement."

"Because of what then?" Cassiopeia asked

"I mean _real_ power," Decker explained. "_Financial_ power, influence, contacts to the highest circles… that sort of thing."

Cassiopeia nodded. She was familiar with that kind of power, wielded by the great patrician Houses of Caprica, Scorpia and other old colonies. She hadn't known that they had their Federation counterparts – although she should have guessed. Human nature was depressingly similar everywhere in the galaxy – or beyond.

"And who _is_ this man?" she asked.

"Ever heard the name of Lang Caradon?" Decker replied with a question of his own.

Cassiopeia frowned. She was fairly sure she'd already heard that name somewhere, and not that long ago, either.

"You've probably met him before you came aboard," Decker added helpfully. "He's one of the richest men of the Federation and has generously supported the rebuilding of some of your colonies… for reasons of his own."

"That's right," now Cassiopeia now could recall the unobtrusive image of an elegantly greying, middle-aged man who looked as harmless as a university professor with his short, well-groomed beard, his old-fashioned eyeglasses and that deceivingly soft voice – if only there weren't those calculating eyes. "The founder of Caradon Industries, isn't he? And I remember being told that he was the tactical advisor of the admirals Rittenhouse and Iota."

"That he is," Decker agreed. "Aside from owning one of the richest dilithium mines on Coridan, the lithium cracking station on Delta Vega, several shipyards at the Aldebaran Colony, some cybernetic research labs on his own asteroid, situated in the asteroid belt of the Merak System, where the orbital dock of his private merchant fleet can be found, too."

"That's a lot of influence and awfully big money," Cassiopeia said in concern. She would have to report this to Tigh, so that Caradon's activities could be tracked back home. "And you think this man is one of the puppet masters behind the _New Mankind_ movement?"

"I don't _think_ it; I know that for certain," Decker replied dryly. "My mother used to be one of the leading animators of the movement, and for a while, Caradon showed a great deal of interest for her. For about as long as my father used to be the commanding officer of the first _Constellation_."

"I heard your father had died a hero when he tried to destroy the planet killer robot," Cassiopeia said tentatively. "And that without his sacrifice Captain Kirk would never have figured out how to neutralize that doomsday weapon."

"Yeah, he did," Decked shrugged. "At least he didn't die for nothing. He was supposed to become the military governor of Deep Space Station Epsilon 7, after finishing his five-year-mission. Had he lived, that would have enabled him to spend more time with his family… or, at the very least, with his son. I don't think my mother was going to renew their marriage contract. They'd grown apart too much already."

"Epsilon 7... That's Semiramis, isn't it? The huge space station on the border of our sector?" Cassiopeia asked.

"Right," Decker nodded. "It's usually called Starbase 7, but that's not the correct name. There are big differences between a Starbase and an independent deep space station. Well, after my father died, the Old Man gave the job Commodore Hunter. But I assume you know Hunter already. She's the ranking Starfleet representative your people have to deal with all the time, after all."

"Of course," Cassiopeia nodded. She's an excellent warrior... and a very intelligent woman. We've had a few... enlightening conversations, after the great battle with the Cylons, and I hope that wasn't my last chance to talk to her," she returned to their original topic. "So, do you think that this Caradon person only showed interest for your mother because his real interest was for the position of your father?"

"And good old Dad threw a wrench in his work with his heroic death," Decker supplied with a wry grin. "That's only my personal opinion, of course; you shouldn't take it for face value. But if something, I know these paradise birds like the back of my hand, since I had the questionable pleasure to spend my entire childhood among them."

"It's surprising, then that they haven't succeeded to convert you," Cassiopeia said. "As a rule, children are easily influenced. More so when they are trying to make a parent happy."

"My telepathic sensibility can only be topped by that of a Denebian whale," Decker laughed mirthlessly. "That's about the only thing I've inherited from my father, and I'm grateful for that – that the _unit_ was unable to absorb me. They saw it a bit differently, of course. They considered me a genetic failure, a mentally disabled person – _blindhead_ is their name for people like me. Mother wasn't very happy when I turned out one. But my so-called disability made it possible for me to keep my own mind… and to get Danielle out of their clutches, after a while."

"Was she more… perceptive?" Cassiopeia asked.

"Somewhat more; bus she wasn't particularly gifted, either," the young man shrugged in defeat. "She was just… just lonely and confused, you know. She always needed someone to lean on. For more than four years, I was good enough for the job. But then se left me, and apparently, that old friend of her father's proved to be a better protection than I could hope to be."

"You really think that it's so simple?" Cassiopeia felt really sorry for him, but at the same time, she couldn't believe that there wouldn't be more behind it.

Decker nodded, slowly, soberly.

"We were very much in love, of course," he murmured, "but… I think we were mostly looking for support by each other, before everything else. Now it seems she has found better support. I just wish she'd been more honest to me."

"And what about you?"

"I still have Starfleet," Decker sighed. "First officer of the _Enterprise_ is several sizes bigger than I'd have chosen for my first command position, but if Captain Kirk thinks I'm needed here, I'll do my best _not_ to disappoint him. That's more than enough to keep my mind occupied – most of the time anyway."

Cassiopeia nodded in understanding. It was easy to notice that – despite their somewhat bumpy start – the young Decker had found in Kirk the father figure his own always absent father, who'd died way too early, could never be. And it seemed that Kirk was actually not half as uncomfortable with this role as one would have expected from such a vain and self-centered man as some people thought him to be.

Of course, the grown son of an _old friend_ never makes a man seem as old as a grown son of his own would, the _socialator_ thought a bit maliciously, especially when one could always point out how big the age difference had been. Men like Kirk usually reacted well to admiration, and Will Decker was on the best way to develop some good, old-fashioned hero worship for his captain. Even if he was still a little angry about the sudden change of his previous orders.

"But you still do love her, don't you?" she asked quietly. "I mean Danielle..."

Decker didn't answer right away. For a few endless moments, he just stared into his drink, as if he'd expected to find the right answer in the opaque green liquid. Then he emptied the glass in one long swallow.

"I don't know," he replied. "I honestly don't know."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6 Disturbing News

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

As before, descriptions of the refitted _Enterprise_ follow the blueprints of _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph. The Insallah colony is my invention. The crew members Brent and Lemli were human characters in the Original Series – I made them Andorians, just to have a more mixed crew. The female Andorian officer, Lt. Lamia, appears in several Star Trek novels.

* * *

**CHAPTER 06 – DISTURBING NEWS**

Lieutenant Rick Washburn, diagnostic engineer of the science section's computer department, finished his routine check on B-deck, which was the security area of the ship, basically. He still found the time for a visit in the office of the Chief of Security before the end of the Beta shift. Chekov, together with the other department chiefs, was on Alpha shift so he wasn't in his office However, aside from him, quite a few security people were crammed into the small room. In the science department, the change of the duty shift took a lot more checking than anywhere else aboard. Even if all security cells were empty, like at the moment.

"I'm done here, Steve," Washburn said. "The data about the computer diagnostic are saved to your control unit. How long till you can hand over duty to your relief?"

"Twelve minutes, twenty-three second to go," the lanky, brown-haired, kid-faced Garrovick said accurately. "The chief would skin me alive if I finished here a second early or so."

"He's changed a lot since his promotion," Washburn remarked. "As a greenhorn, he used to be the best buddy you can imagine. This self-important mannerism doesn't suit him all too well."

"He's still a greenhorn," Lieutenant Josephs, Garrovick's relief, said in a slightly patronizing manner. "Responsibility makes him all tightened up. He's gonna get used to it and become his own charming self again. It's just a matter of time."

"Actually," Lt. Carlisle, once Chief of Security aboard the _Enterprise_ under Captain Pike, said with an unpleasant scowl, "I don't understand why the captain made him our boss to begin with. He's just finished the Security Academy in Annapolis, und has only recently been promoted to junior-lieutenant."

"Just like myself," Garrovick shrugged, smiling. "And I got promoted to assistant chief of security as well."

Carlisle shook his head. "That's not the same. You served five years as an Ensign in our section, after all. All you needed was to attend to some special courses. You know Security inside and out, and you've proved your tactical talent several times."

"Besides, you are the son of _Captain_ Garrovick," Angela Martine-Teller, who – after her second divorce – now wore the name of her first husband together with her own again, added with a pleasant smile. "Such things always come handy when promotions are considered.

Garrovick became beet red with anger and embarrassment.

"I _never_ tried to make gain any advantage because of my father," he told them through clenched teeth. "When I got assigned to the _Enterprise_, Captain Kirk wasn't even aware of the connection. I wanted to deserve my position like everyone else.

"We know that, Steve," Martine patted her superior officer encouragingly on the shoulder. "But you must admit that the captain tends to put the sons of his old friends into good positions. If I only think of our new XO…"

Everyone pulled a face, even Garrovick, who began to gain his natural colour back.

"I'm not Will Decker, Angela."

"I never assumed that," the pretty, frivolous face of Martine clouded over; "besides, we all like you, Steve. It's just so that here are a lot of people onboard who'd worked damn well and hard for years and would have more than deserved a promotion. But they got inexperienced greenhorns set before their noses instead. That's not good for morale."

"That's true," Washburn agreed. "When we heard that Lt. Boma returned to active duty, we all hoped he'd finally be made head of the science section. I mean, the man has two doctorates _and_ the Astrophysics Chair in Princeton. Beyond that he taught stellar mathematics as a guest lecturer at various universities, _including_ the Makropyrios. Starfleet Sciences should have called themselves fortunate that he'd be willing to work for us at all! And whom did we get instead? A pointy-eared boy, unknown even to most other pointy-eared guys."

"Lieutenant Xon is Admiral Nogura's protégée," Ensign Sdan told them matter-of-factly; like their Vulcan cousins, Rigelians had excellent information networks and never hesitated to use them. "Captain Kirk asked for Commander Sonak, actually, but the commander didn't want to leave the _Intrepid_ and suggested Xon instead. And if Vulcans suggest something... "

"... even the Old Man gives in," Washburn finished with a sour face. "Personal contributions of the fast don't play any role."

"Does it mean that you'd prefer Lieutenant Boma as the new science officer?" Sdan inquired.

"I'm not the only one; all department heads feel the same way," Washburn replied. "They all served aboard the _Enterprise_ during the previous five-year-mission, and they all exceeded in their work. Every singles one of them would have deserved that position; Boma more than anyone else."

"Yeah, but wasn't he court-martialled for insubordination?" asked the surprisingly gentle voice of Mohammed Jahma, a six-foot-two, heavily built son of ancient Nigeria, whose handsome face had a new, somewhat grim look due to the recently grown, thick moustache.

Sdan, who was new aboard the _Enterprise_, raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Rigelians were every inch as curious as Vulcans – and less restricted about it.

"Really?" he asked. "What has he done?"

Lieutenant Josephs shrugged. "He had a... disagreement with Spock. It was an unexpectedly complicated mission. They crushed with the Galileo onto Taurus II; three people died. There are those who say it was Spock's fault. I don't know, I wasn't there. In any case, Lieutenant Boma had apparently lost his nerves and very nearly bit the Vulcan's head off. Mr. Scott reported the incident, and you know that such reports always lead to an interrogation."

"What was the outcome?" Sdan asked.

"Dr. McCoy testified in favour or Lieutenant Boma," Lt. Josephs counted down on his fingers. "Mr. Scott was the main witness of prosecution. Spock wasn't allowed to make a testimony, as he was directly involved, and Yeoman Mears expressed herself neutrally. In the end, Lieutenant Boma was degraded to junior-lieutenant for unseeming behaviour towards a superior officer and quit Starfleet. It was a rather ugly thing."

"But he made a stellar career as a civilian scientist and only agree to be reactivated at the personal request of Admiral Nhauris, the head of Starfleet Sciences, it's said," Washburn added. "I doubt he'd have done that, had he known he was going to play second fiddle to a Vulcan again – and a completely inexperienced one, at that. The man doesn't _need_ to accept such things."

"Hardly," Lieutenant Carlisle agreed. "What I still don't understand, though, is why Lieutenant Chekov went to Annapolis in the first place. We all thought he'd be very content on the bridge and had his eye on a command career."

"He had," Ensign Tamura spoke for the first time, "but he got rejected from command school for the reason of being too young. He didn't want to stagnate for another five years, so he decided for a second training… until he can try it again."

"And he told you all this because the two of you are such good buddies?" Angela Martine-Teller asked in suspicion.

The Japanese ensign shook her deceivingly delicate head.

"Of course not," she laughed. "But occasionally, I have the honour to drink tea with Mr. Sulu."

"That explains a lot," Mohammed Jahma nodded thoughtfully. Everyone knew that the chief helmsman was the biggest gossip aboard.

Lt. Carlisle, though, looked at the Nigerian in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"It's simple," Mohammed Jahma shrugged heavy shoulders. "The captain wanted to help him to gain some command experience. After both Lieutenant Commander Giotto and Kelowitz had left the _Enterprise_ to become security chiefs of their reflective Starbases, our section was left in a somewhat… problematic shape."

"What do you mean, Moh?" Martine wondered.

"There are half a dozen full lieutenants, all of whom have served aboard this ship for at least one full five-year-mission," Mohammed Jahma explained. "Every single one of them could have become the new boss: Lieutenant Josephs, Lieutenant Carlisle, Lieutenant Dickerson, Lieutenant Osborne, and so on. Mr. Carlisle as our senior, more than anyone else. There could have been a lot of bad blood and bitter fights inside the security department. I hate to say it, but bringing in someone from the outside was perhaps the best solution.

There was a long silence after his statement. Everyone tried to look at the problem from this brand new angle – especially as Mohammed Jahma's judgement was usually very reliable in such things. Coming from a family that had given the Islam Community a _khadi_ in every generation made a person very perceptive for the truth.

"Well… perhaps," Lieutenant Carlisle admitted reluctantly.

Before anyone else could have reacted, the impersonal voice of the ever-present board computed made an announcement.

**Attention! The time is 20.00 hours. Beta Shift has ended. Gamma Shift begins. **

"It's about time," Garrovick grumbled and rose from behind his console. "Computer; this is the duty officer of Beta Shift, security section, Lieutenant J.G. Stephen Garrovick. Authorisation..." and he rattled down his security code.

**Identity confirmed **the computer answered.

"I hereby transfer responsibility for Deck B to the duty officer of Gamma Shift, Lieutenant James Xavier Josephs," Garrovick continued.

**Ready for identification **the computer told them dutifully.

The slender, elegant Josephs stepped up to Garrovick (whom he barely reached to the shoulder) and rattled down the official litany.

"Computer; this is the duty officer of Gamma Shift, security section, Lieutenant James Xavier Josephs. Authorisation... "

**Identity confirmed **the computer, replied agreeably.

Josephs snapped to attention and faced Garrovick. "You are relieved, Lieutenant."

"Thank you," Garrovick replied and stepped down from his duty station. At the other duty stations, the change of shift had also been performed according to military tradition. Security was a bit old-fashioned in this area, with rituals and saluting and all that, unlike the other sections. Thus Mohammed Jahma, Angela Martine-Teller and Keiko Tamura went off-duty, while Lieutenant Carlisle, Ensign Sdan the quiet, middle-aged Andorian, Yeoman Lemli, began theirs.

"Care to come with us to the rec deck?" Washburn asked Garrovick. "We could play a game of backgammon; besides, I'm famished."

"To be honest, I've got a dinner date with Lieutenant Palmer," Garrovick admitted a bit shyly.

Washburn grinned. "Congratulations! It seems that your new and improved position has finally made you acceptable in her eyes. Can we hope in a fusion of two of the oldest Starfleet-families any time soon?"

Garrovick became beet red with embarrassment, which made his boyish face even look even younger. His long-time attraction to Liv Palmer wasn't exactly a secret, but – as it had remained more or less unrequited, or, at the very least, hadn't gained the kind of reaction he was hoping for – he didn't like to speak about it.

"Oh, shut up, Rick," he said. "It's not like that."

"Yeah, but you'd _like_ it to take exactly that turn, wouldn't you?" Washburn grinned. "Just don't give up. And what about you, ladies? Anyone interested in a bit of food?"

Tamura shook her head. "I've promised Lamia to accompany her for the evening?" she explained. "Andorians don't deal well with loneliness, and as you know, her own people have been shunning her ever since her family cast her out."

"And that only because she wanted to join Starfleet?" Washburn shook his head in bewilderment.

"Se is a fertile female," Tamura replied gravely. "The mothers expect her to return home, enter a clan marriage and bear children. Lots of them."

"Despite the overpopulation Andor has fought for a century or so?" Washburn asked in surprise.

"Religion," Tamura said seriously, "has seldom anything to do with logic. Unless you are a Vulcan, of course. Or perhaps not even then."

"Well, you may invite _me_ to dinner, Rick," Angela Martine-Teller took the engineer's arm in a slightly proprietary manner, "but you'll have to play phaser-duel with me afterwards."

Washburn raised both hands, laughing. "I'm declaring defeat in advance," he said.

Martine-Teller gave him a lovely smile, but her eyes lingered on Mohammed Jahma, who was known to have two wives and (so far) five children back home in Niamey, but that didn't make him any less attractive in the ladies' eyes. And anyway, as the scion of a well-respected _Hausa_ family, he could afford to take two more wives, if he wanted.

"Moh, you coming with us?" she asked invitingly

"Sorry, I must turn you both down," the Nigerian replied apologetically. The Ramadan begins today. Preparations have to be made."

"You're probably the only person in the entire Fleet who still follows the Islamic rules," Martine-Teller remarked snidely, while they left Chekov's office and entered the turbolift cabin. She didn't like being rejected, and she made it very clear.

"You're mistaken, Ensign," Mohammed Jahma replied calmly, going at distance by using her rank instead of her name. "Even aboard the _Enterprise_, we have the privilege to begin the Holy Fasting in company. To fast and to recite the Koran in a community, no matter how small it is, is a very... spiritual experience."

"How many of you are aboard?" Keiko Tamura inquired. She had the good luck to serve on the same ship as her uncle, so she knew how important such things could be.

The Nigerian smiled. "Oh, I'm in good company. Yeoman Zara Jamal hails from the rather old-fashioned Islamic colony Insallah and is very well-versed in tradition. It's a pity that Lieutenant Boma isn't on board yet; he's just found his way back to the Islam a short time ago and would most likely love to join us. Deck F, Level 6," he instructed the turbolift, and the cabin moved on smoothly, noiselessly.

"Deck G, Level 7," Washburn added; then he turned back to the Nigerian. "You could have booked the chapel, you know."

"We have," Mohammed Jahma replied, "but I need to wash myself and put on other clothes first. One doesn't go to a ritual gathering in duty uniform."

With that, he exited the turbolift, as the cabin has just reached Level Six. Another level further the others left the cabin, too, entering directly the _Enterprise_'s recreation centre, which was said to be the largest, best-equipped one in the entire Fleet.

* * *

The rec deck, as it was generally called, was fairly busy as always right after a change of shifts. Lieutenant Garrovick excused himself and hurried directly to one of the starboard snack bars where Lieutenant Liv Palmer, Uhura's pleasant-mannered, blonde second-in-command was already waiting for him at one of the tables.

Martine and Washburn discreetly headed into another direction, not wanting to ruin Garrovick's chances. The young man was shy enough when it came to women anyway. They found several free tables and chose the one next to a reading room, the door of which was left open. Within, Lieutenant Xon was sitting by himself, doing what Vulcans considered recreational activity: reading the newest issue of some quantum physics periodicals.

Rick Washburn asked Martine about her dinner choice, and then hurried to the food professor to order it. Cassiopeia, functioning as the rec deck hostess tonight, came down from one of the balconies, where she'd been watching a card game played by off-duty lab technicians, to greet them.

"Thank God it was an uneventful shift," Martine replied to the _socialator_'s question. "I mean, I don't like being useless, but if I'm needed, that always means big trouble."

Cassiopeia nodded in understanding.

"I know what you mean," she said. "I used to work on the life station of a battlestar for _yahrens_. Well, I wish you well and hope you're going to have many more such 'useless' duty shifts – that would be the best for us all."

She smiled and took her leave, as new guests were arriving; among them one whom she needed to welcome personally.

xxx

His excellence H'R'Krsna, Special Emissary of Deneb II, had settled in during the weeks since his arrival as if he'd never lived anywhere else but aboard a spaceship. The humans had stopped trying to learn how to pronounce his name (they'd have failed anyway) and since he'd asked them _not_ to use any honorary titles, they began to call him simply Krishna, after the blue Hindu god, stating that there were definite similarities. Krsna not only accepted this, he even found the comparison flattering.

He seemed to like socializing, and he did that a lot, often bringing his flute with him to the rec deck and giving the off-duty personnel impromptu concerts – a fact that made him very popular. Even though he kept saying that he'd only had to chose diplomacy because – by the measure of his won people – he was too untalented a musician. In his smoky grey civilian tunic, held together by a thin leather belts, and the wide, comfortable trousers he wore to it, he barely stood out of the usual clientele of the rec deck anymore, considering the fact that the new regulations allowed the crew to wear civilian garb when off-duty, and most of them enthusiastically did so.

"Hare!" the Denebian greeted Cassiopeia with folded hands and a deep, graceful bow; then he nodded towards his escort, smiling. "Nancy and I wanted to pick up a drink… and some news, assuming there are any."

"You mean gossip, don't you?" Cassiopeia riposted, and Nancy Wong, looking like a delicate china doll in the traditional silk robe of her people, shook her head in fond exasperation.

"His excellence has managed to find out when my duty shit ends – in theory, at least – and considered it his duty to keep me occupied, even in my so-called free time?" she said, but it didn't seem as if she'd really mind.

Any other man would have found the light-hearted remark insulting. Krsna, however, shared the general Denebian good-naturedness and just laughed about it. Besides, Cassiopeia's trained eye had already realized the subtle signs of a relationship between Wong and the ambassador that went beyond professional.

"Well," she said in a friendly manner, "I for my part haven't heard any news yet. But we still have four full days until we reach Thimsel."

"That's not entirely correct," Xon, whose keen Vulcan ears could follow the conversation even from that distance, injected; he now rose and approached them unhurriedly. It was unusual from a Vulcan to join a conversation he hadn't been part of from the beginning, but Cassiopeia had noticed Xon trying to accommodate to the social interaction of the mostly human crew for some time.

"Oh?" the _socialator_ said, trying to nudge the Vulcan a little with her apparent curiosity. Xon tilted his fine-boned, elegant, faun-like head to the side in the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug, signalling that the wordless message had reached him.

"Captain Kirk has ordered to increase speed to maximum warp at the beginning of Alpha Shift," he explained. "We are estimated to arrive in the Iacta Tau System in 3,5.6.8 standard hours.

"Interesting," Cassiopeia remarked languidly. "Has he also offered a reason for speeding up?"

Xon's head moved slightly to the side again.

"He mentioned a… _hunch_," he replied dryly; Cassiopeia couldn't quite tell whether his tone was derogatory or admiring. Not for sure. Xon sometimes reacted differently than the Vulcans she'd met during the last two and half _yahrens_. On the other hand, she couldn't say that she'd known and Vulcans _really_ well, of course.

"Captain Kirk's intuition is legendary," Decker, coming directly for his duty shift, as it was his wont, joined the conversation. "It's a known fact. We might not always understand the reason behind his actions, but they've proven him right most of the time."

Cassiopeia suppressed a sigh. She tried to stay free of prejudices, but despite the fact that she'd gained a little more insight into Decker's motivations, the over-eagerness of the young executive officer was sometimes a bit hard to bear. And not for her alone, it seemed. Even the eminently patient Nancy Wong closed her eyes for a moment, and Xon – without doing anything as vulgar as giving any outer sign of his displeasure – immediately returned to his reading. All his Vulcan stoicism seemed to fail when it came to Decker… of course, he wasn't entirely blameless in their working relationship having had a bad start.

Cassiopeia knew that it wasn't generally her job to put the first officer to his place, but it seemed that nobody else would. The others were his subordinates and couldn't do it, or his fellow senior officers who didn't want to undermine morale. Still, it _had_ to be done, for the good of the entire ship. Otherwise, the young XO could lose not only the respect of the senior staff but also the trust of the crew – with unfortunate consequences.

"I don't think that Captain Kirk would need you to defend his decisions, Lieutenant Commander," the _socialator_ said in a kind but warning tone; "especially not against a Vulcan senior officer. Vulcan loyalty is legendary as well, I'm told – and forgive me the remark, Mr. Decker, but you are more than a bit over-eager."

"I'm only doing my job," Decker stiffened in indignation like an insulted fourteen-_yahren_-old. Cassiopeia had noticed that sort of reaction earlier.

"No, unfortunately, you're _not_," she replied, keeping her tone friendly but firm. "You're interfering everywhere, all the time, even if it's not necessary. And you're making yourself increasingly unpopular.

Decker's pale face was twisted into a rather… unpleasant grimace.

"I wasn't aware that the crew came to you with their complaints," he sneered, just a little bit maliciously.

"There are many things you're not aware of," Cassiopeia replied with unwavering friendliness. "One of those things is that people tell their bartender things they wouldn't tell their best friends… or their therapist. Besides, I'm not trying to take over Dr. Noël's job. I don't need to _do_ anything to get the picture; I'm simply here, almost the whole day. Sooner or later everyone comes here... or to the Officers' Lounge. They have a drink, or something to eat – and they _talk_. I just _listen_. That's all."

As Krsna and Wong had discretely withdrawn already, Cassiopeia decided to give the young man a much-needed piece of her mind. She took Decker's arm and dragged him into one of the empty niches. The various games and conversations going on on the different levels of the rec deck provided enough background noise so that no one could hear them – even if there were eavesdroppers among the crew of the _Enterprise_.

"Listen to me, Lieutenant Commander, because I won't repeat what I'm going to say now," she said quietly but sternly. "We have been only on our way for a couple of weeks, but you1ve already managed to alienate your fellow senior officers and to get on the nerves of the entire crew. If you continue like this, they'll only obey your reluctantly – and I don't need to emphasize what _that_ would mean in a crisis, do I?"

"No, you don't," Decker paled, the bracket-like lines deepening around his mouth. "I haven't asked for this position, Ms Cassiopeia. I was Second Officer of the new _Constellation_, under Captain Walsh' command, and I was good. So good that my captain has personally requested my promotion, and by Mike Walsh, that means a lot. I applied for the position of the First Officer aboard the destroyer _El Mahdi_, which would have been the right position for me: a small ship, with only 220 people aboard, most who I outranked most other officers. But Captain Kirk has asked for me, and I don't intend to disappoint him.

Cassiopeia shook her head in concern.

"Look, I can understand that you're trying to prove yourself to your idol, Kirk. But that doesn't mean that you'd need to copy his superior attitude – which, to be frank, isn't as justified as he seems to believe. Besides, you haven't built up enough reputation yet that would justify such manners. Not to mention," she added dryly, "that it doesn't suit you."

Decker replied with a bitter, mirthless laugh.

"This is not about copying anyone's behaviour, Ms Cassiopeia. The senior officers on this ship had rejected me before I could have opened my mouth. They're positive that someone else would be better in this position. And you know what? Perhaps they're right. Captain Kirk has only brought me aboard because of my father, not because he'd have been impressed by my previous work. But honestly, I don't care. I won't ruin my career, just because he hasn't thought about the whole thing carefully enough in advance. And if the other senior officers don't like me? Well, they don't have to… as long as they carry out my orders, their likes and dislikes don't bother me."

"Hmmm," Cassiopeia murmured thoughtfully. "If that's how you see it. But that's not the best start for a smooth working relationship."

Decker shrugged. "I wasn't the one who _started_ it. But I won't let this chance taken from me for the sake of a few hostile officers."

Cassiopeia could have come up with a few other arguments, but all of a sudden she had the feeling that something changed around them. She just didn't know what."

"Something is… different," she said uncertainly. "But what is it?"

Decker went to the nearest viewscreen and switched to external view. His instinct had been right: instead of the elongated, multicoloured streaks, there were immobile little dots of light scattered across the eternal darkness of deep space.

"We have fallen out of warp," he said.

"And that would mean… what exactly?" Cassiopeia asked.

Decker shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm sure we'll be informed when it concerns us in any way. Perhaps I should return to the bridge, though."

As if answering his words, the intercom went on.

"This is the captain. All senior officers to the conference room on Deck D immediately."

At the same time, Cassiopeia's wrist communicator – disguised as a gold and iridium bracelet adorned with white gems – started to beep. The _socialator_ touched one of the gems, activating the comm unit.

"This is Cassiopeia."

"Tigh," the colonel's voice was tiny, coming through the golden grid, but very clear. "There will be an unscheduled meeting in the conference room on Deck D, in ten minutes. Your presence is needed. And bring the Denebian ambassador, please."

"Understood," Cassiopeia broke the connection and hurried up to the gallery, from where she thought to have heard Krsna's laughter. The ambassador was trying to explain the rules of a bizarre Denebian board game to a couple of lab techs.

Cassiopeia waited until the Denebian paused for a moment to breathe, then she cut into the discussion, firmly and with a raised voice.

"I'm sorry, your excellence, but you have to delay this game. We're both needed in the conference room.

The ambassador became very serious in the blink of an eye. For the first time since his arrival, Cassiopeia saw genuine concern on his face.

"We couldn't have reached the Iacta Tau System already, could we?" he asked.

"I wasn't given any details, your excellence," Cassiopeia answered. "I was only told to go to the conference room with you, immediately."

"Very well," Krsna said after a lengthy pause full of concern, "let's go!"

* * *

The V.I.P. conference room– situated, logically, next to the guest quarters on Deck D, on the ship's fourth level – wasn't very different from the briefing room. Which was understandable, considering that they basically served the same purpose. The only difference was the lack of any special seats around the long, dark-polished conference table; most likely to avoid any diplomatic conflicts about such trivial matters as sitting order. Diplomats were complicated creatures; one had to handle them with care.

When Cassiopeia and her blue charge arrived, the senior staff had already gathered in the conference room. Some of them looked as if they'd been just pulled out of bed – unsurprisingly, as they all belonged to Alpha Shift and usually slept during the situated board night. Not even Kirk himself seemed fully awake. Only the two Vulcans, Xon and T'Pel, looked as fresh and focused as always. But again, Vulcans needed less sleep than most people.

"Please, have a seat, Ambassador... Ms Cassiopeia..." Kirk tried to suppress a yawn, with little success. "Sorry for waking you all in the middle of the night, before we even reached Thimsel, but communications has discovered something… strange, right after crossing the border of the Iacta Tau System. Commander Uhura..."

"We've been looking for communications from Thimsel on all subspace frequencies since we'd come within reach of the long range sensors," Uhura took over; she, too, looked tired – not like someone who'd been woken suddenly but like someone who hadn't even gone to bed yet. "So far, we've been unable to find any subspace communications. However, after entering the system itself, we detected _this_."

She pushed a button on her comm panel, and some high-pitched, rhythmically throbbing noise filled the conference room. It was very quiet and distant, right at the upper edge of human hearing capacity, and the throbbing almost hypnotic. Cassiopeia didn't doubt that – if subjected to it long enough – it would lull every human (and perhaps other intelligent beings, too) into some sort of catatonic, trance-like state.

"This… _noise_ seems to be integrated into every kind of planetary communication," Uhura switched off the unnerving throb. "Originally, it's broadcasted at a much higher frequency, one that's for human hearing capacity not even audible. I've modified it a little, to make the effect more comprehensible."

"But what's the meaning of this?" Sulu gave voice to the question that was being formulated in all their minds.

"And _who_ is sending this stuff anyway?" Decker added. "Does it come from the outside or is the source somewhere on the planet itself?"

"The broadcasting comes doubtlessly from the planet itself," Uhura replied without hesitation. "However, we haven't been able to localize the exact source yet. The scattering field they are using is very carefully constructed; whoever is responsible for this… this _thing_, they clearly don't want to get caught. But we're working on it. I've assigned the problem to Ensign Freeman – Scotty was generous enough to let me borrow him. If anyone, he'll be able to find the source. He has the instincts of a sleuth… and he's not afraid of using unorthodox methods, if he has to."

"Is that generally rated as something positive?" Xon inquired. Despite his neutral tone, it was clear that he disagreed.

"These signals have been constructed in a way that their source can't be detected by conventional methods, Lieutenant," Uhura replied, trying very hard _not_ to take on a lecturing tone. "Would I not be working on my lectureship, I hadn't been watching those unusual frequencies at all. Somebody down on Thimsel is very sly. I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

"Why not?" T'Pel asked, providing living proof of the general Vulcan lack of intuition.

"If someone goes such great lengths to slip some sort of secret broadcasting into the planetary communication, while every other contact with the roast of the Federation has been broken, that means something is very wrong on that planet," Uhura explained with forced patience. Despite her years-long experience with Spock, sometimes she really found it tiring to spoon-feed the members of a race of such superior intelligence the most trivial things a six-year-old human child would get instinctively. But there was no real help – despite said superior intelligence, Vulcans happened to lack exactly that kind of instinct.

"That brings up two further questions," Kirk interrupted impatiently. "Firstly: what's going on on that planet? And secondly: who's behind it. Any ideas?"

Xon apparently felt obliged to answer – reluctantly, it seemed, as he didn't have sufficient data to base any useful theory on it. Such trivialities, however, could never get between a Vulcan and his duty, of course.

"At the moment, we barely have enough date to build a proper theory," he admitted. "I studied all routine reports from the last two standard years but I could not find any discrepancies. I am sorry, Captain, but I need at least a long-range scan of the entire planet surface before I can come up with anything."

"And? Have you already ordered it done?" Kirk demanded.

One of Xon's eyelids fluttered visibly for a moment, which was a fairly unusual reaction from a Vulcan. Even from a very young and inexperienced Vulcan.

"Naturally, Captain. The astrophysics and geology labs have begun with the work as soon as we fell back to impulse power."

"Any results yet?"

"Mr. Fisher should report in in a few minutes, Captain."

He barely finished speaking when the doors slid open and a slender, reddish-blonde female ensign in sciences blue hurried in. She respectfully nodded towards Kirk, then she went directly to Xon and handed him a few data chips. For security reasons, the computers of the conference room worked independently from the board systems.

"The results of the long-range scans, sir," she said with an unmistakable British accent. "Mr. Fisher is quite worried and suggests further investigations, as soon as we come in short-range scanning distance. He also had Lieutenant Gates called in, for the chemical analysis of the atmospheric readings."

Xon nodded. "Tell Mr. Fisher to continue, Ensign Haines. I shall go to the astrophysics lab as soon as this meeting is over and recheck the readings."

"Aye, sir," Ensign Jana Haines inclined her head towards the senior officers and left without a further word. As one who'd got her degree in astrophysics just before coming aboard, she didn't need any further instructions. Due to her excellent results (not to mention Lieutenant Boma's positive evaluation reports) Xon didn't hesitate to entrust her with the responsibility of the astrophysics lab during Gamma Shift.

The Vulcan slid the data clips into the computer and switched to visual display. The picture of Thimsel appeared in the middle of the large viewscreen; from the distance, it looked barely larger than a hazelnut.

"Magnify," Kirk ordered.

"We _are_ at maximum magnification, sir," Xon replied. "The distance is still too large."

"Analysis?" Kirk asked.

"The data are inconclusive," Xon said. "Readings show almost exactly what could be expected... save from a discrepancy in the temperatures."

Kirk frowned. "In what way?"

"According to our computer data, the average surface temperature should be 12 degrees Celsius," the Vulcan explained. "If these scans are correct, the temperature has risen two point five degrees in the recent years."

McCoy's head snapped up in alarm.

"What?" he said, clearly shocked. "That's a lot! Such an abrupt warming indicates either a global natural disaster or galloping pollution of an extent that hadn't been reported from any Federation colony so far."

"That is correct, doctor," Xon nodded. "And if the latter is the case, those people have managed to destroy their entire planet in merely sixty standard years. That would be an unusual achievement, even for humans."

"Which means, we might have to interfere," Kirk said glumly.

"But what about the _Prime Directive_?" Krsna asked with a frown.

"Thimsel is not an independent world yet, Ambassador," Lieutenant M'Botabwe spoke for the first time, "just a joint Terran-Centaurian colony. The Statutes of the Federation clearly state that Starfleet has the right to interfere, if the inhabitants of such a colony can be accused of environmental crimes on a global scale. In fact, it's part of our duties. In extreme cases we even have the right to dissolve the entire colony and to remove the colonists from Thimsel."

"If they're aware of that, then it's small wonder they've been out of touch with the rest of the Federation," Decker said. "Who'd like to abandon their decades-long work?"

"Actually, that was a rather foolish move," Tigh objected. "They should have known that breaking contact would result in a thorough investigation from Starfleet's side."

"Colonel Tigh is right," McCoy nodded. "I'm afraid we'll have to deal with something more… sinister down there."

"Worse than a global environmental disaster?" Ilia asked doubtfully. "That must be a truly critical situation."

"Well, we'll know more in the near future," Kirk said. "Go to Yellow Alert, Number One, just to be on the safe side. That would have Security prepared for all eventualities."

"Aye, Captain," Decker jumped to his feet and left for the main bridge to give the necessary orders.

"Science Officer," Kirk turned to the Vulcan, "I want readings and analyses around the clock. We need to estimate the extent of this environmental disaster."

"As you wish, Captain," unlike the first officer, Xon rose and left for the astrophysics lab unhurriedly.

"Uhura, I want all planetary communication analyzed," Kirk continued. "Don't look for this peculiar broadcasting alone; I want the purpose of the messages analyzed as well."

"Lieutenant Brent is already at it, sir," Uhura replied calmly. "You'll have the overall picture within the hour. Andorians are as reliable as antigravs."

"I could help with the analysis," T'Pel offered. "Besides, planetary communications could provide valuable insights into the colony's basic social structure."

"You're welcome to join in," Uhura nodded. "Lieutenant Brent is in comm lab #2; it's on Deck G, Level 7, Section 25 Alpha. I must check on what Ensign Freeman might have found in the meantime, but I'll join you two afterwards."

"Well, that seems to be all, for the time being," Kirk summarized. "The next meeting is scheduled in two standard hours, in the briefing room on Deck G; we're closer to the labs there and have direct access to the board systems. I hope it's all right with you, gentlemen," he looked at Krsna and Tigh, who were, after all, the alien dignitaries here. Both men nodded, and the meeting was adjourned.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7 Aeropolis One

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

The city-building of Aeropolis has been inspired by a report I read somewhen about extreme skyscrapers in Japan. As before, descriptions of the refitted _Enterprise_ follow the blueprints of _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph.

The activities of Colonel Tigh in this chapter are related to my other story, "The Lost Warrior", which is in the _Battlestar Galactica_ section.

* * *

**CHAPTER 07 – AEROPOLIS – ONE**

Tigh and Uhura returned to their quarters, with the intention to refresh their knowledge about Thimsel, its history and the supposed environmental data. Tigh also wanted to compose a preliminary report for the _Quorum of Twelve_ – the ruling body of the New Colonies preferred to be up-to-date about everything of potential importance concerning the Federation – and a personal one for _Sire_ Adama. The former commander of the _Galactica_ and its fugitive fleet might have handed over his duties to his son and successor, but he still kept a close eye on everything that might influence the Colonies. Besides, Tigh still trusted his judgement more than anyone else's.

Activating the independent comm station in their living room, he saw in surprise that there had been several subspace calls during their absence. And they'd come through the secured diplomatic channel that connected him with the New Colonies, too! This specific connection had been established for him because he'd lived with Uhura on Earth and needed a way to reach his fellow councillors and vice versa.

"It seems people have been busy at home," he said to Uhura, showing her the list of calls.

"An official communiqué from President Darius?" Uhura raised an eyebrow. "Seems important."

"I wonder," Tigh replied doubtfully, opening the message. The new President of the Twelve Worlds had some fairly… _unusual_ ideas about the future. But at least he was an honest dreamer.

It was an official communiqué indeed, announcing the upcoming marriage of President Darius with the lady Droxine Plasus of Ardana.

"Well, that's actually a surprise," Tigh commented dryly.

"Why?" Uhura asked. "Ardana has been involved in the rebuilding of your colonies since the beginning; a marriage of convenience to strengthen the alliance sounds reasonable."

"Perhaps," Tigh allowed, "but, you see, we're speaking of President Darius here – a man who'd been openly _flit_ since his coming of age. I'm more than a little surprised that he'd take such a drastic step, just for political advantages."

"He's been openly… _what_?" Uhura frowned.

"I'm sorry," Tigh apologized. "It's derogatory slang for men who're interested in their own gender – not generally used in polite conversation. What I wanted to say is that President Darius is… how do you say it? Oh, yes; he's homosexual, and he's always been very open about it. Now, I won't deny that the political situation is tense back home, but I'm still shocked that he'd agree to _Seal_ with a woman, just to strengthen his position. A traditional Kobolian _Sealing_ is a lifelong commitment – there's no divorce possible like by civilian marriages."

"Well, he must be really desperate if he agreed to marry _Droxine_, of all people," Uhura said snidely.

"You know her?" Tigh asked. Uhura shrugged.

"Not personally," she said, "only by reputation – but that's more than enough. She's the spoiled, pampered daughter of High Advisor Oiran Plasus, the _de facto_ leader of Ardana. She's very pretty, very well-educated, considered a talented musician – but, in fact, she's just a useless little toy in her father's hand, always on the search for excitement, to somehow make her boring life in idle luxury more interesting. You should read the captain's log from Stardate 5818.4; it tells everything. Including the story how she'd practically thrown herself at Spock, and almost succeeded. If you consider discussions about 'the parabolic intersection of dimension with dimension' as foreplay, that is."

"She's a scientist, too?" Tigh asked.

"I doubt it," Uhura said, "but perhaps she reads a lot and is talented at keeping up appearances. _Everyone_ can discuss scientific theorems with a large enough vocabulary, without understanding the actual _science_ behind them."

Tigh gave her a curious look. He'd never seen her so venomous – she was usually more forgiving towards other women.

"You seem to dislike _Siress_ Droxine very much," he said.

"I dislike what she stands for," Uhura replied grimly. "The idea that a small circle of privileged ones live in idle pleasure, while the majority has to labour in those hellhole _zienite_ mines under the planet surface. The idea that women use nothing but their bodies, brought to perfection by artificial means, to strengthen the positions of their fathers or husbands. That they are sold like cattle for a promising alliance."

"Perhaps she agreed to this _Sealing_ freely," Tigh offered mildly, incapable to believe that such practices would be tolerated on a Federation world.

Uhura shook her head. "Ardanan women don't _have_ a will," she said. "They're not _allowed_ to have one. Ironically, the Troglyte women labouring in the mines are more the equals of their males than the aristocrats in the cloud city."

"Do you think I need to warn President Darius?" Tigh asked in concern. "It's still not too late for him to back off. The _Sealing_ isn't scheduled till the day after tomorrow."

Uhura thought about that for a moment. Then she shook her head again.

"No, I don't think so," she said. "She'll play the role of the perfect little First Lady for your President very convincingly. She'll be loyal to him, she'll accept his… _other_ interests, she'll give him children if that's what he wants, and here mere presence will ensure the alliance between Ardana and your Colonies."

"Yes, but whom will she be more loyal to? The President or her own people?" Tigh asked.

Uhura shrugged. "That I can't say. And _that_'s something you perhaps should warn your President about."

"I will," Tigh said, "although it may be that he already knows. He's no fool – just young and new the office."

"Then he needs all the help you can offer." Uhura agreed. "Who else has called?"

"A lot of people," Tigh replied, "but it's mostly the usual reports and communiqués and stuff like that. Except… now that's odd!"

"What?" Uhura asked. Tight pointed at a coded message.

"Look at this," he said. "This is a Code Blue message from Omega. The really odd thing is, though, that it's been sent from the personal comm station of Commodore Hunter, the military governor of Deep Space Station Epsilon-7. Why should he do that?"

"The comm station of a Starbase commander is specifically shielded against outside tampering," Uhura reminded him. "The access codes are changed randomly, and the comm unit uses an advanced DNA scan before it allows access. It seems that your Colonel Omega has something confidential to tell."

"That was evident for me as soon as I saw the Code Blue mark," Tigh said grimly. "I haven't seen a Code Blue since I left with you for Earth."

"Perhaps it has to be something with President Darius' upcoming marriage?" Uhura guessed.

"Possibly, but unlikely," Tigh shook his head. "Unless he discovered something sinister plan behind the planned _Sealing_, that is."

"You better check out the message," Uhura suggested. "I'll talk to the comm labs in the meantime to se how far they've got."

She turned to leave him alone, but Tigh caught her arm, holding her back.

"Uhura," he said seriously, "you are my _wife_. Whatever concerns me, it concerns you as well. That's how our people see things, and they'll expect you to be well informed about Colonial politics. Please, stay. I don't like to load more burden onto your shoulder, but… that's how things are done back home."

"All right," Uhura pulled up a chair, trying not to show too much eagerness. To be frank, the affairs of the New Colonies fascinated her – she just didn't want to intrude.

Tigh entered his personal code and opened the message. Colonel Omega's patrician face was unusually grim on the big viewscreen – as a rule, the man didn't lose his unflappable calm easily, so his obvious agitation was a bad sign.

"Colonel," he said without preamble, "I've found out something really… disturbing. I don't dare to give you any details, not even through this secured channel. Dr. M'Benga has a record of everything we've learned so far. As I'm recording this message for delayed transmission before returning to the _Galactica_, he might even know more when you meet him. Ask him about the lost warrior. Give my regards to _Siress_ Uhura. Omega out."

"Well, that was… mysterious," Uhura commented. It seems that Ben has the key to the mystery. Small wonder; he's spent the last two years in your sector. You should seek him out,"

"I will," Tigh said," but that has to wait. We need to gain some clarity in the Thimsel issue first."

"Do you want me to talk to Ben for you?" Uhura offered.

Tigh shook his head. "He won't tell you anything. I'm certain that Omega gave him very specific orders. I'm the only one the doctor will hand out the data chips. I'll go looking for him as soon as I can, but first we need to check out the data your people have recorded. _Sire_ Adama will surely be interested in it."

"It's not much so far, I'm afraid," Uhura admitted. "Perhaps we'll learn more during the next meeting."

* * *

When – exactly two hours later – they gathered again, this time in the briefing room, the science section was indeed able to provide extensive new data.

"Our suspicions have been confirmed, Captain," Xon reported. "The surface temperature has been increased by an average of two point six three degrees Celsius. Terraforming activities have apparently been stopped for at least six to eight standard years, and even the upholding of the status quo seems to have been neglected. Extensive mining activities, on the other hand, have been increased tenfold, and in various regions of the planet. Look out for the domes housing the industrial facilities – they can be found all over the planet surface."

He displayed on the large viewscreen the picture of a reddish brown planet, the monotony of which was only broken by the wide, greenish ocean separating the eastern and western hemispheres, north from the equator. The mining and refining domes were scattered across the landmasses like silver dots and seemed to span a shimmering network all around the planet.

"These processing plants are fully automated," Xon continued, "and they require only a small number of supervising personnel. Unlike the greenhouses and farming facilities on the southern hemisphere, which would theoretically require a numerous human crew."

"They… _would_ require?" Kirk echoed in surprise. "_Theoretically?_"

Xon glanced at T'Pel, including her in the discussion. Such aspects were her field of expertise, after all.

"According to our readings, those agricultural facilities have been abandoned approximately nine standard years ago," the sociologist explained. "It does not seem to have been a conscious decision, though, more a slow decreasing of activities in agriculture that had dragged on for several years. Currently, the entire population of Thimsel is concentrated in a single city by the name of Aeropolis and consumes exclusively synthetic food."

"That's perverse," McCoy grumbled. "They've got an entire goddamn _planet_ to their disposal and they stuff themselves full of chemicals?"

"What kind of city is this?" Kirk asked, ignoring his old friend's ramblings with practiced ease. McCoy was rambling about something all the time, if for no other reason than in order to stay trained at it. But nobody gave him a hard time because of that custom. To be honest, most people were so used to it by now that they barely even heard him.

"It is not an actual city in the traditional sense of the word," T'Pel replied, "but a single building in the middle of Thimsel's only ocean. The building is two kilometres high, has five hundred levels and room for three hundred thousand inhabitants. According to the biosignals, that is the number of people currently living in the city… well, more or less. They are still two thousand persons short of having the city full."

"That's strange," Sulu said, clearly surprised. "Two years ago the colony reported only sixteen thousand inhabitants."

"That is an interesting problem," T'Pel agreed. "Either the report from two years ago had been falsified, or the colony has experienced an incredible wave of migration in the recent two standard years. That, or a true explosion of population growth."

"That's highly unlikely," McCoy shook his head. "Unless every single woman on Thimsel has given sixfold births, and that twice in a row."

"I think we can assume that Thimsel has already sent falsified reports to the Federation two years ago," Tigh concluded. "Or else they have been taken over by some outside force. In any case, the environmental disaster must be the result of the extensive mining activities, I'd say."

"The readings make such an interpretation possible, "Xon agreed. "The possibility of a direct connection between those two factors is approximately 97.6 5 per cent.

"I wonder how they managed to create a building like that," Chekov shook his head in amazement, ignoring the statistical probabilities completely. One got used to that sort of thing while working with Vulcans.

Scott shrugged. "That's not such a big deal," he said. "Skyscrapers like that have already been built on Earth in the twenty-first century; in Japan, if I'm not mistaken. Thimsel has geothermic energy in abundance, and if the Tellarites helped them, it was done like a snap. Tellarite construction robots are said to work true wonders."

Xon shook his head. "That is not a Tellarite design," he said. "Nor do their construction robots work in such extreme heights."

"Besides, it's not so much a matter of method but a matter of motivation," Sulu added. "Why would people who have an entire planet to their disposal feel the need to crowd together in a tower amidst the ocean?"

"Perhaps it wasn't their idea at all," Krsna offered quietly. "Someone was obviously looking for a method to get the entire population under tight control. Such a completely isolated city is the best prison imaginable. Have you been able to find Denebian lifesigns in that… tower, Mr. Xon?"

"No, sir," the Vulcan replied calmly, "and no Tellarite ones, either."

"What?" McCoy's head snapped up in alarm. "Does it mean that only humans have been left on the entire planet?"

Xon stirred in his seat, uncertainly.

"Well," he said, "humans and Centaurians read very similarly from this distance. It _is_ possible that Aeropolis still has a limited number of Centaurian inhabitants, but they do not form a separated group, so that they would not appear as anomalous readings."

"But what about Denebians and Tellarites?" Krsna asked in concern.

"There are none on Thimsel," Xon replied, "unless they live in subterranean quarters that are shielded against Starfleet-issue scanners. However, there are small colonies in their early building phase on both the planets K'rta 2 and Gartov. Both planets seem to be inhabited and show definite signs of colonization. There is a possibility of 86.6 3 per cent that the Denebian and Tellarite colonists have been moved there ahead of schedule.

"By force, most likely," McCoy growled.

"About that I have no data to my disposal," Xon replied with unshakable calmness; then he turned to Kirk. "May I make a suggestion, Captain?"

Kirk shrugged. "Be my guest, Lieutenant."

For a moment, Xon frowned in confusion, clearly not having any idea in what manner he could probably become the captain's _guest_; a moment later, though, he recognized the figurative speech and nodded.

"I would suggest, sir, that we seek contact to the two smaller colonies first," he said. "Before we decide what kind of action needs to be considered concerning Thimsel itself, it could prove useful to gather information about what we might find there."

"An excellent idea, Captain!" Krsna cried before Kirk could have answered. "My primary orders are to learn about the fate of our colony anyway. Could you give me a shuttle and an escort? I'm willing to leave as soon as this meeting is adjourned."

Kirk very obviously hesitated, which surprised everyone who knew him well. In any other case, he'd have been the first to visit the neighbouring colonies, looking for clues. Of course, that had been in the times when the admiralty hadn't prohibited starship captains to lead the landing parties personally. James T. Kirk wasn't the kind of man who liked to let others have all the fun and collect all the laurels.

"You don't need a shuttle, Ambassador," Tigh intervened smoothly, before Kirk could found a reason to reject the Denebian's request. I'll be happy to take you there aboard the _Antares_; she's a courier ship, faster and safer than a shuttle, and my staff is schooled in Starfleet procedures."

"Thank you, Colonel," the Denebian answered in relief. "I gratefully accept your generous offer."

"It's more about curiosity than about generosity, to be honest," Tigh admitted with one of his customary half-smiles. "I've never seen a Denebian colony before… and I'd like to."

"Oh, certainly," Krsna said in delight. "We might not travel a lot, but we _love_ visitors."

"Captain," Decker turned to Kirk, "I'm asking for permission to visit the Tellarite colony, sir."

"Request denied," Kirk replied promptly. "Should the Tellarites have been moved there by force, their reaction to humans would certainly be hostile."

"That won't be a problem, Captain," Decker assured. "I can deal with Tellarites. The first officer of the new _Constellation_, where I served for over a year, _was_ a Tellarite; I had to learn how to work with her and her people. In fact, we got along rather… amiably, all things considered."

Kirk hesitated for another moment – then he gave in with obvious reluctance. He wasn't used to learn things second-hand, but the new regulations were very clear in that particular point: the captain was to remain on board, where he was safe, and coordinate all landing party activities from the main bridge.

"Very well," he said morosely. "Form two landing parties, Number one. Assign a security team to the _Antares_ and take the _Copernicus_ for your team. She's one of the new series, much better maneuverable than the old crafts. Both teams should keep contact with Commander Uhura all the time. She'll monitor your activates and transfer return orders if necessary. Don't take any risks – this is a recon mission, nothing more. Star when the ships are prepared. Dismissed."

* * *

"Captain Kirk apparently wanted to make sure that you won't be able to accompany me on this trip," Tigh commented dryly, entering the turbolift cabin in Uhura's company. "Deck R, Level 18; Shuttlecraft Hangar," he told the 'lift, and it moved on obediently.

"You took the decision from him; things like that always hurt his pride," Uhura shrugged, enlacing her arm with his. "Besides, he hates it that the new regs won't allow him to hop down onto every single planet on our way and start interfering with the life of the people who live there. Not hat I'd blame him for hating to be confined to the bridge," she added fairly, "it frustrates the Kolker out of me, too, as Dr. McCoy would put it. But he's the captain, and rank has its flip side as well as its advantages, hasn't it?"

"Well, if _you'd be_ willing to use the advantages of your position as the wife of a foreign diplomat, I could take you with me now," Tigh pointed out reasonably. "But you1ve insisted to return to regular duty."

This was a problem they'd discussed repeatedly during the recent years, without having found a solution that would have satisfied them both.

"Exactly," the lift stopped, but Uhura manually blocked the doors for one more moment of privacy." Take care, _amuntu_, and don't stay away longer than necessary."

"I won't; the Lords of Kobol may witness my promise," Tigh laughed and embraced her in a tight hug. They stayed like that for a moment, sharing a kiss, then the colonel unblocked the doors and stepped out onto the hangar deck.

Uhura sighed, waited for the doors to close again, then glanced at the ceiling and ordered, "Main bridge."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8 First Contact

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes: **Sorry for the slow pace, but these are more novels than short stories, therefore they take a lot of time to be written. The data about the Carboniferous period are taken from Wikipedia.

The whole Denebian background is made up by me. The different warp-speed scales were an intent to explain why ships in the Original series could fly faster than warp 10, while in the 24th century-based series, they could not. A detailed explanation can be found in _The Next Generation Technical Manual_.

Don't be shocked by the spelling of Chekov's speech. I've tried to reproduce his accent as I've seen in various Star Trek-novels. g

**

* * *

CHAPTER 8 – FIRST CONTACT**

Although wearing the same name, the _Antares_, wasn't identical with the small destroyer aboard which Colonel Tigh had fought his last great battle against the Cylons(1). _That_ ship had suffered too heavy damage to be worth putting together again; besides, in the long run, the impromptu warp drive would have overstressed its structural integrity. No, the _Antares_ was one of the new warp-shuttles(2) – a brand new design, of which so far only had been built six in the Utopia Planitia shipyards.

This new ship class had been developed for diplomatic purposes – as a courier ship, it had to be able to travel longer stretches independently. Its maximum travelling velocity was warp 4.5 – according to the new scale – but could accelerate as far as 6 in case of an emergency, and it had the same weaponry as a border patrol ship.

All this would have required a much larger rump than the average shuttlecraft – which, in exchange, would have cut back booth speed and maneuverability at impulse power. So the constructors, with typical Vulcan practicality, had chosen a simple but elegant solution: they hadn't integrated the warp drive into the hull to begin with. Instead, they'd constructed a warp platform, with two massive, horizontal nacelles; this platform carried the actual shuttlepod, which had room for twelve passengers (including the crew) and could be separated from the platform at impulse power, to dock in to a starship or a Starbase – or to land on a planet.

When Tigh reached the hangar deck, his staff was already waiting for him. Boomer, who'd been specifically trained for this task before start, took over the small engine room of the warp platform. Tigh flew the ship personally, with Rigel as his co-pilot. Cassiopeia, now wearing a blue and silver Colonial uniform, too, sat at the comm station. Krsna, in full diplomatic attire, was shepherded into the passenger compartment with two security officers used to hot climates: Mohammed Jahma and Keiko Tamura. K'rta 2, like the Denebian homeworld, was a subtropical planet.

"Courier ship _Antares_ ready for launch," Rigel said, her fingers dancing on the control panel.

"Acknowledged, _Antares_," Meade Martin, the duty officer of the hangar deck, replied. "Hangar deck secured. Forcefields activated. Launch in minus 120 seconds. "

Tigh's eyes raked along his own control panel. Everything checked out just fine. The control lights shone in reassuring green, and the engines were warmed up already. Boomer hadn't been idle in the engine room.

"Are you clear for launch, Rigel?"

"Yes, Colonel. All instruments read normal. Cabin pressure stable. Manual launch in 80 _microns_… I mean seconds. Countdown is running steadily. "

"Good," Tigh switched to the engine room. "Communications test, Captain Boomer. Do you read me?"

"With signal strength six, Colonel. All systems are functioning flawlessly. We're ready."

"Good," Tigh switched frequencies again. "_Antares_ to bridge. Do you read me, Commander Uhura?"

"Loudly and clearly, Colonel," came Uhura's warm voice through the loudspeaker. "Have a nice trip, sir."

"Thank you, _Enterprise_. Tigh out."

"Hangar deck depressurized," Meade Martin reported. "Hatch is opening. Begin launch sequence."

"Launch when ready," Tigh murmured, more to himself than to Rigel.

The humming of the engines increased a little as the _Antares_ lifted off to float about a metre above the hangar floor. Switching the monitor to heck view, Tigh could see the shuttlecraft _Copernicus_ lifting off and float some five metres behind them, waiting for them to clear the way.

The colonel looked forward through the _Antares_' large transparent aluminium front window, and felt a strange pressure in his chest as the large outer hatch slowly opened. Through the still narrow slot, the stars were shining in the endless, black depths of space like tiny flames. It was a sight that made the heart of ever space traveller ache with longing..

_This is real_, Tigh thought. _Most of the time we only see the pictures of a viewscreen. But facing space directly, without the interference of technology, makes one realize the exalted beauty of it. This endless void between the stars has been my home, ever since I climbed into a cockpit for the first time as a fourteen-yahren-old cadet. I won't be able to become earthbound again, I think. Just as Uhura couldn't get rooted in the sacred ground of Munguroo, I, too, will be travelling on the river of stars as long as I have the strength to it_.

"Five _microns_ to launch, Colonel," Rigel warned him quietly.

The hatch doors had been fully retracted into the double-layered duranium hull. A rectangular opening yawned before them: a gate, opening directly to the cosmos. Tigh felt the same tickling tension as in his youth, before he'd taken off with one of those old, clumsy fighters. Flying had not only been a dangerous occupation for the pilots of the war-torn Colonies; it had also been their delight, joy and passion for ten centuries – above and beyond duty or any other pleasure.

Now that the war and the long flight were over, the Colonial warriors tried to calm down a little, too. They settled in, trying to devote their struggles and talents to the rebuilding. And yet Tigh couldn't help but feel the old urge in his heart to leave the safety of the hangar deck and brave the challenges of deep space with the fragile nutshell of his little ship.

He was certain that down in the engine room Boomer was feeling the same.

He switched frequencies again. "_Antares_ to hangar officer. Requesting permission to launch."

"Permission granted," came the answer promptly. "Have a good flight, Colonel. Hangar deck out."

Tigh hit the intercom button twice, in rapid succession; comm officers signalled their thanks that way – he'd learned it from Uhura.

"Are you ready, Rigel?"

"Yes, sir; course set and engaged."

Another switch. "_Copernicus_, we engage now. Stay at safe distance."

"Aye, Colonel," came the calm voice of Lt. Rhada. "I'll do my best to avoid collision on my way out."

Mohammed Jahma chuckled. Lt. Rhada belonged to the tribe of the Ojibwa, and her calm was unshakable like the Rocky Mountains. If anyone, she was certainly without a tendency to hasty reactions.

The two shuttles rose a little higher, then they slid through the open hatch in a straight line.

* * *

"Switch to heck view," Kirk ordered, and Sulu changed the direction of the main viewer.

The image warbled for a moment, but barely any chance could be seen; it still showed the stars that seemed to be sitting in the deep folds of the black velvet space. Soon enough, though, the elegant courier ship with its protruding warp nacelles swam into the picture, followed by the more streamlined shape of the new _Copernicus_. It wasn't the old, Typ-12B shuttlecraft, either, but a brand new design, capable to almost the same velocity as a warp-shuttle. The refitted _Enterprise_ was the first heavy cruiser that got all her shuttles replaced with these new constructions – Kirk was very proud of the little ships. They might not been warp-capable, but at full impulse they certainly were a marvel.

"The _Antares_ is on our backboard, sir," Sulu reported. "Excellent navigation, if I may make the remark. Colonel Tigh must have been an ace pilot in his prime."

"Lieutenant Rhada does a good job, too," Kirk said, as if not liking to hear the praise of the concurrence. Tigh had become very popular among the crew, without actually doing anything for it, and in his honest moments the captain had to admit that it bothered him a bit… or more than a bit. "Readjust the focus, Mr. Sulu. I want to keep an eye on those shuttles as long as possible."

Sulu nodded and touched a few controls. The image slid to the side and was now showing the two shuttles from above, as they were still travelling on a parallel course. Iacta Tau A came in view, too, and Uhura narrowed her eyes against the star's harsh light.

"Program optical filters, Mr. Sulu," Kirk ordered.

The helmsman carried out the order with calm efficiency. The shining paled to a tolerable level, and now they could see the _Copernicus_ slowly turning towards a nearby, reddish brown planet, while the _Antares_ followed the straight course that would take her to K'rta, still invisible behind the great brightness of the primary star.

Uhura murmured a prayer following the ship's course with her eyes on the viewscreen.

* * *

Having programmed the course, Boomer came up from the engine room and relieved Tigh in the pilot's seat. Not that the colonel needed a rest, but as a dedicated pilot, he, too, was eager to test the abilities of their new, wonderful little ship.

"The _Copernicus_ had turned away from our course, Colonel," he reported. "The distance between the two shuttles is growing fast. Currently, we're travelling with forty-five per cent impulse power. ETA to the orbit of K'rta 2: two hours, twenty-six minutes."

"Excellent," Tigh laid his hand upon Boomer's shoulder for a moment, just like in old times, when Boomer had seen a young, green cadet and him the hard and stern training officer who hadn't given praise easily; then he joined the Special Emissary in the passenger department.

The viewscreen had been turned on there, and the two security officers were staring at the image of the _Enterprise_ in awe. As the transporter range was growing with every new model, shuttle flights had become rare – some people hadn't get to see their own ship from the outside for _years_. The heck of the great ship gleamed pearly white in the light of the two suns, Iacta Tau A and B. Perspectivic distortion showed the two long, gleaming warp nacelles in the shape of a large V. There was a rectangular hatch in the heck plane: the door of the hangar deck they had just left. The outer doors were sliding closed, so that the large room could be re-pressured again.

"Increase speed to sixty per cent impulse," Tigh ordered quietly, but Boomer heard him nonetheless. The _Antares_ accelerated, the _Enterprise_ diminishing behind them quickly, and Tigh couldn't help feeling a slight pang of jealousy. He might have dreamed of the command chair of a _Galactica_-sized battlestar all his life, but the elegant, white beauty of the _Enterprise_ didn't leave him untouched.

The alliance forged between the Federation and the New Colonies had made warp technology available for the Twelve Worlds – in theory, at least. Their old, battered ships wouldn't be able to endure the strain that subspace travel would put on their hulls, not even the _Galactica_. The Battlestar-class had to be reconstructed from the scratch, and the first new battleship, the _Atlantia_ (named in advance to honour President Adar's ship tat had been destroyed at Cimtar) had been under construction at the _New Aberdeen Naval Yards_ of Aldebaran for a year by now. It would have warp drive, up-to-date phaser banks and photon torpedo launchers as well as reconfigured landing bays for six Viper squadrons. To finish it would take at least another year… if not more.

Among other high-ranking flag officers, Tigh, too, had applied for the command chair of the very first warp-capable Battlestar, but he was realistic enough to know how little chance he'd have against such legends as Xaviar and Croft. Even with the support of Fleet Commander Apollo and _Sire_ Adama, he had to provide diplomatic success to be even _considered_ for the position. The _Quorum_'s memory was notoriously short when it came to people's merits, even recent ones. All the more did they remember Tigh's generally rebellious spirit towards politicians. The fact that he was currently a member of the _Quorum_ himself wouldn't help him in this matter.

The _Enterprise_ had diminished to a tiny white dot on the screen. Krsna, wanting to see more, touched one of the sensor controls to switch to the long-range forward sensors. Seeing that he was having problems with the magnification, Keiko Tamura came to his aid and displayed the image of a world that looked like a far-away, pale green marble.

"It's beautiful!" Krsna cried out in surprise. "So much water."

"According to these readings, seventy-eight per cent of the planet surface contains of water," Tamura agreed, consulting the screens. "It could barely be classified as a Class M-planet; rather N, I'd say. A true waterworld. No large landmasses but a relatively high number of large islands. It's very similar to your New Aquarius, Colonel, both in age and geography. The database says it's the equivalent of Earth's Carboniferous period."

Krsna and Tigh exchanged identical blank looks.

"A little more detailed explanation would be helpful, Ensign," the colonel said mildly.

"Sorry, sir," Tamura blushed. "I keep forgetting that you come from a different world. Well, the Carboniferous was a geological period in Earth's history, named so for the extensive coal beds of that age found in Western Europe. It ended some three hundred million years ago, and lasted some fifty million years. Its paleogeography was marked by the widespread epicontinental seas. There was also a drop in the south polar temperatures, meaning that the climates became much warmer, almost tropical."

"And that's true for K'rta 2 as well?" Krsna asked.

Tamura studied the readings again. "It seems so, sir. Apparently, the whole planet is one lush tropical swamp. The seas are extensive indeed, but their levels are relatively low, at least compared with the Earth average."

"How big _are_ the landmasses?" Mohammed Jahma, who couldn't see the screen from his position, asked. Tamura performed another data correlation.

"Approximately the size of Terra Australis; some even bigger," she replied. "Ten thousands of plant life species are being identified at the moment; most of them very similar to the now extinct Terran horse-tails, club mosses, scale-trees and Sigillaria. There are also a great number of ferns, cycads, conifers and vine-like plants."

"What about animals?"

"Well, we're still a bit far away for that," Tamura frowned, "but given the twenty per cent higher oxygen concentration in the air than on Earth, I'd say we could count on very large insects and arachnoids. Fish of all sorts, of course. As for tetrapods, the database says the most likely are large amphibians – up to six metres long – with heads covered by bony plates and weak or underdeveloped limbs. Even the fully terrestrial amphibians can be as large as two metres. But most of this is based on Earth similarities, so I can't tell for certain how accurate the estimates are."

"Can you localize the colony?" Krsna urged her. Tamura shook her head.

"I can't find any sign for larger amounts of metal alloys," she replied, "which should be part of the standard equipment for a newly-founded colony."

"Of course not," the Denebian nodded. "Our people don't use the prefabricated houses generally used by new colonies. Denebian colonists always build their shelters from the materials they find on the new worlds they wish to colonize; preferable out of stone. With our telekinetic abilities it's relatively simple – and very environmental-friendly."

"I thought your people were reluctant to leave the homeworld," Tigh said."

"Most of them are," Krsna agreed, "but there are exceptions. Some believe that they could bond with new worlds the same way and are willing to take part in such experiments."

"That still doesn't explain the lack of Denebian lifesigns," Tamura said doubtfully. "We're less than an hour from establishing standard orbit. We should be able to find _something_."

"The reason might be the subterranean habitats," Krsna said. "We're capable of raising beautiful buildings, yes, but due to the hot climate of the homeworld, two thirds of an average Denebian house are dug under the surface. Since K'rta 2 isn't a particularly cool world, either, the colonists here most likely kept the old customs."

"Well, we'll know more within the hour," Tigh said. "Keep scanning the planet surface for Denebian lifesigns, Ensign Tamura, especially for larger concentrations of the population. There used to live more than two thousand Denebians on Thimsel, and since they apparently aren't _there_, they should be here somewhere. Assuming they're still alive, that is."

"You really do see things from the dark side, Colonel," Mohammed Jahma said mildly.

Tigh shrugged. Although he was more than a head shorter than the security guard, he didn't deem dwarfed by the yeoman. The elusive air of authority that enveloped him in every moment of his life, seemed to strengthen aboard his own ship.

"That might be rooted in the fact that I've seen too much pointless violence, treason and death, Yeoman. An old myth says that mankind has grown from dragon's teeth.; and sometimes we truly rise to the challenge and make this reputation a well-deserved one."

* * *

The colonel's bitter comment snipped any further conversation in the bud, and the _Antares_ continued her way in silence, for more than an hour. The closer they came to the bright, blue-white sphere of Iacta Tau a, the more the temperature of the small ship's hull increased. Soon, Boomer had to set the hyperpoarization of the windows at maximum, least they wanted to go blind.

"Do sunglasses belong to Starfleet's standard equipment?" Cassiopeia asked. "Or do we need to wear helmets with polarized viziers?"

"Oh, no, those would be too heavy and clumsy," Mohammed Jahma laughed. "For regular planetary missions, we have superlight equipment."

With that, he pulled a large rectangular box out from under his seat. This belonged to every Starfleet-issue shuttle, and thus to the _Antares_ as well. He took out a tightly wrapped little package. When he unfolded it, it proved to contain thin, hyperpolarized protective goggles and a transparent biofilter mask.

"These masks are made of superelastic polymers and adapt to the facial structure of their wearer immediately," the Nigerian explained, "which is why they don't have to be fastened by additional ribbons."

"And how can we get them off again?" Cassiopeia asked with a frown.

"Each mask has an off taste," Jahma showed her the right place. "If you press here, air comes under the mask, and it simply falls off. Don't worry, this construction is absolutely safe. It's been tested hundreds of times."

"Do we really need to wear breathers?" Tigh asked; he didn't like the thought for some reason.

"Afraid so, sir," Jahma nodded. "They're necessary, even for Ambassador Krsna. There could be microorganisms here against which we have no immunity. It's a completely unknown world down there, and I'm responsible for your safety,"

"But if there were dangerous viruses and bacteria, our small colony must have died out long ago," Krsna worried.

The Nigerian shook his clean-shaven head calmly.

"Not necessarily, Ambassador. Given enough time, they could have adapted already. Which isn't true for first-time visitors, though. I'm sorry, your excellence, but I must insist, both as your security guard and as your paramedic, that you wear those masks – all of you."

"It's all right; you're only doing your job," Tigh waved him off, leaning over Tamura's shoulder. "Anything new, Ensign?"

"I've found something that might be considered a settlement, sir," she replied. "Here on the largest northern island. These constructions there are too symmetrical to be natural rock formations."

"Good; beam us into the middle of that area, then."

"I'd rather not beam down, sir," Boomer turned to him. "There seems to be some substance in the rocks of that area that reacts with the radiation of Iacta Tau A and could disrupt the transporter beam. It's too risky."

"I see," Tigh wasn't happy about the news; if they couldn't use the transporter, it meant that in case of an emergency they'd have to reach the _Antares_ by traditional means before they could leave the planet. "In that case, we must separate the landing unit."

"Seems so," Boomer nodded; he wasn't happy about it, either. "Rigel and I'll stay in a geosynchronous orbit with the warp platform, so that we can pick you up immediately, if needs must be."

"Colonel," Tamura interrupted, now in a lot less neutral manner, "I think I can get in planetary communication. No Starfleet frequencies, though… I've never heard anything like that. Anyone having a clue?"

She put the strangely arrhythmic signal on the speakers. The Starfleet personnel shook their respective heads in unison, and Cassiopeia seemed clueless, too. Only Krsna nodded.

"This is an old Denebian security code, Colonel," he said. "So old, in fact, that it's not even registered in Starfleet databases. However, it's still in use, albeit rarely. We only use it when we don't want any outsiders to read our messages."

"Can you log into it?" Tigh asked.

"Of course," the diplomat replied, "but you'll have to leave me alone with the comm console for that. It's not so that I wouldn't trust you, but I'm not allowed to share this code with _anyone_."

"That's not a problem, sir," Tigh nodded, then he looked at his assistant. "Cassiopeia…"

The _socialator_ rose from behind the comm console. They all withdrew to the passenger department discreetly, so that the Denebian could establish contact with the colony of his landsmen. Based on the quick, quiet clicks of the rocker switches, the code must have been a fairly long and complicated one. For a while, all they could hear was the crackle of static, then a long, melodic sound – like that of a gong – signalled that the contact had been established.

"Please, Colonel," Krsna stepped back courteously, "join me!"

The picture of another Denebian appeared on the screen; as well as the human eye could tell, that of an elderly female. Her skin was a lot darker than that of the ambassador, almost bluish-black, her face simpler, broader, and her hair – as far as one could make it out under he brightly coloured shawl wrapped around her head – was completely paled out from high age,

"_Hare_," Krsna greeted her, folding his hands and bowing slowly. "I'm special Emissary H'R'Krsna. There is great concern on the homeworld about the fate of your colony. I've been sent to assess the situation. With whom do I have the honour?"

The elderly female returned the greeting gesture; her broad, rough, veined hand showed that she'd done hard physical labour all her life. The Denebians' love for the fertile soil resulted in the custom of doing a wide variety of agricultural work with traditional methods, although they'd have the means to use advanced technology.

"Welcome, Emissary," she replied slowly. "My name is P'R'Vtí; I'm the leader of the Deirr and responsible for the agricultural affairs on this world. It's a relief to finally re-establish contact with the homeworld. Are you capable of landing on our planet? "

"Yes," Krsna answered, after getting the confirmation from Tigh. The elderly woman looked relieved.

"You should do so, then, as soon as possible. And tell your ship to stay away from Thimsel. I mean out of sensor range."

"Why should they do that?"

"I shall explain later... as far as I can. You must trust me, Krsna-_dwa_; the situation is serious."

Krsna glanced at Tigh again. The colonel nodded.

"Very well, Vtí-_dwi_," the ambassador said. "Can you provide us with safe landing coordinates?

"No; but that's what we have our _!hew_-technicians for. L'K'Smna..."

The old woman stepped out of the picture's focus, changing places with a fragile, somewhat younger male, who was as fair-skinned (for a blue alien anyway) that he could be mistaken for an Andorian. His longish, white hair emphasized the likeness even more.

"You can use our regular landing area, Emissary," he said, after performing the greeting ritual, and rattled down the necessary coordinates with a speed that Rigel could barely keep up with feeding them into the navigational computer. "The Four Elders will welcome you there."

"Thank you, K'rta 2," Krsna replied. "We'll prepare for landing now. Krsna out. "

The contact was terminated. Rigel checked the data one last time, then she went down to the control room of the warp-platform. Since Boomer was dealing with the engine room, she had to pilot the drive section. Cassiopeia, whose father was captain of a small merchant ship once, took over for her on Tigh side; the _socialator_, having spent yahrens on her father's ship, was a passable navigator.

Mohammed Jahma walked around, giving everyone protective goggles and breathing masks. Other than that, they went in their regular uniforms, as field jackets would have been too hot.

"Engineering ready," Boomer reported.

"Separation system ready," Rigel added. "Separation in minus ten seconds... five... four... three... two... one... and separation."

"Release holding clamps," Tigh ordered.

"Holding clamps released," Rigel answered through the intercom. "Hull plates over clam housings closed. You're ready for lift-off, Colonel."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Please forward the colony leader's warning to the _Enterprise_ and keep this channel open. We'll check in with you again after the landing Tigh out."

* * *

The warning hit the _Enterprise_ with the impact of a bomb. After some agitated discussion, during which Xon's point of view (that they should continue straight to the orbit of the planet Gartov) clashed with Chekov's (who wanted to make thorough reconnaissance flights around Thimsel and, if necessary, block planetary communications, although there was very little of the latter to be found), Kirk made a Salamonian decision. He withdrew _Enterprise_ behind the third one of Thimsel's four moons, to remain outside of sensor range and still be capable of indirect observations. The moon was an irregularly shaped, cavernous piece of rock, excellent for just that purpose.

Chekov, who'd wanted to monitor all planetary activities directly, was _not_ happy with the solution, of course. But he had no other choice than to accept his captain's decision.

"You worry too much, son," Commander Scott tried to calm down the ambitious young security chief. They were sitting in the officer's lounge, by a generous amount of vodka/orange and Single Malt whiskey, respectively. "The Captain knows what he's doin'; trust him."

"That's not it, _Meester_ Scott," Chekov was holding his tall, thick glass with both hands, frustration written all over his youthful face. "_I do_ trust my _Keptin_. Problem is that my security officers don't trust _me_. How am I supposed to ensure safety of ship when my own crew obeys me only reluctantly?"

"You're trying too hard, my lad," the chief engineer said. "Give yer people time to get used to you. When the moment comes, you'll make the right decisions; you're not daft. And then, yer people will accept ya. You have to understand yer team, too. It's not easy for them to get used to a new chief after Lieutenant Commander Giotto. He was authority incarnate, and Kelowitz, his second, had turned grey in security, too."

"Vhile I'm just a greenhorn, set before their noses," the young Russian finished gloomily. "I'm not blind, _Meester_ Scott. I can read their faces vell enough.

"Don't let yerself bothered by that," the Scotsman encouraged him in a fatherly manner. "Do as our pointy-eared lad does: do your job as well as you can, and let things take care of themselves."

But no amount of encouragement could really cheer up Chekov today. He knew he was infecting Scott with his rotten mood, although the chief engineer needed some off time just as badly. So he took his leave leaving his barely touched drink on the table, and returned to his office on the B-deck.

"Any reports from the landing parties?" he asked the duty officer at the comm console. In this case, it was Yeoman Montgomery, a calm, middle-aged man. The yeoman shook his head.

"Nothing, Chief. And we don't get anything from the planet, either. Commander Uhura guessed that the folks in that glass-and-concrete monstrosity must have their quarters interconnected somehow, because the only signals go to the mines and back. But they're always the same; most likely industrial reports and acknowledgements of the same. Communications is still working on breaking the code."

"That's odd," Chekov murmured. "Observation, have you found anything yet?"

"Negative, sir," Lieutenant Imamura, also well beyond his youth, had always laid great weight on proper protocol. Chekov liked to work with him because Imamura didn't care who the boss was; as long as duty shifts rolled with the necessary efficiency, he showed the traditional Japanese respect towards _any_ commanding officer. "The entire sector is completely abandoned; at least that's what it looks like. We keep scanning the surroundings, of course, just in case."

Chekov had to be content with that; it wasn't that he'd have any other choice. So he sat down to one of the unmanned consoles to re-check what little data they actually had about Thimsel. He knew, of course, that his men didn't like him looking over their shoulders, but all this idle waiting was getting on his nerves massively.

**

* * *

End notes:**

(1) See: Crossroads, 12 – The Great Battle

(2) It's basically the same thing as the Vulcan warp-shuttle seen in TMP


	9. Chapter 9 K'rta 2

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes: **The whole Denebian background is made up by me. The idea about the eggs came to me while watching some zoo report on TV. The carboniferous environment has been researched as well as it was possible for an absolute layperson – I apologize for any possible mistakes.

BTW, I've wanted to do something with "The Great Bird of the Galaxy", ever since I've heard Sulu mention it for the first time. (g)

**

* * *

CHAPTER 9 – K'RTA 2**

The sublight module of the _Antares_ entered the atmosphere of K'rta 2 in the prescribed angle and was now travelling in atmospheric shuttle mode towards the largest northern island, following the coordinates given by the local Denebians. Tigh kept the shuttle a few hundred metres above the clouds, so that they could enjoy the warmth of the two suns through the hyperpolarized front windows.

"We're flying at a height of twenty thousand metres, Ambassador," he said. "Slowdown sequence is complete. Our current travelling velocity is 730 km/h; slightly below the sound barrier."

Krsna looked out of the heck window. He saw a clear, azure sky that seemed almost transparent. The cloud blanket covered several hundred kilometres under the shuttle, giving an onlooker the impression as if the _Antares_ would float above a sea of cotton fluff. The Special Emissary had never boarded a stratospheric glider before – or any other similar vessel – so he could barely tear his eyes away from the enchanting sight.

Somewhat later – he couldn't tell how much later, as he seemed to have lost his sense of time completely – the colonel's deep voice woke him from his contemplation.

"We'll reach the coordinates given us by your people in thirty minutes, Ambassador. Do you want me to bring the _Antares_ deeper, below the clouds?"

"Yes, please," the Denebian nodded. "I'd like an overall view from the planet before we land."

Tigh pushed the joystick forward – the helm controls of the _Antares_ had been constructed to be similar to those of a Colonial Viper – and the shuttle leaned forward, her nose pointing down in a slight angle. When their travelling height was reduced to eight thousand metres, the transparent blue of the sky give way to the first fringed clouds. For a while, there were no use to look out; all they could see was thick white fog. Then the cloud blanket suddenly stayed back above them, and the _Antares_ was floating, two kilometres above the planet surface.

An amazing world unfolded before their eyes. There was nothing but the endless, pale green of the ocean, the greyish-white-foamed waves of which were tirelessly rolling towards some unknown, far-away shore. From this ever-moving onyx-hued desert the many landmasses rose, scattered all over the waters: large islands that – according to previous readings – didn't form any actual continents. The islands were covered by thick, dark green forests, only occasionally interrupted by the white, bald peaks of the enormous, fifteen kilometres high mountains,

"Twenty-two minutes till reaching the landing coordinates," Tigh said. "I hope the colonists have cut a large enough hole into the forest for me to set this vessel down safely."

He didn't need to worry, though. Albeit they had to fly for a few kilometres above an uninterrupted forest (consisting of horse-tails of twenty metres tall, cycads and conifers, the height of which varied between six and thirty metres, Sigillaria with trunks of a diameter up to one point five metres, scale trees of the same size, huge ferns and the likes), but the thick wall of plants was broken here and there, giving room for several lightings, each of them large enough to provide living space for small settlements. There were separated by light rows of smaller trees that had more likely been planted – or left standing – for exactly that purpose.

On the lighting, in obviously well-ordered configuration, several groups of buildings stood. Their function was unknown for Tigh, but there could be no doubt about their artificial origins. The tall, rectangular – well, almost pyramidal, in fact – structures were built of some yellowish-white local stone, and their walls leaned slightly inward, so that the surface of the roof was somewhat smaller than that of the basics, and they were divided into four levels by three galleries held by stone pillars. The outer walls were covered by figural and ornamental cravings, those of ancient Hindu temples not unlike; not a square inch of stone was left unadorned. Above the peaks of the thirty metres tall scale trees one could see the enormous cone of a volcano on a neighbouring island; it was breathing grey smoke.

"A typical _Deirr_-settlement," Krsna commented. "I think we've found our destination."

Some two hundred metres further they found a surprisingly spacious landing area, covered by hard-stomped clay instead the usual concrete. A few dozen hovermobiles were parking around the rim of the lighting: small vessels, capable of transporting both passengers of cargo and thus very popular on all newly founded colonies. At the other end of the landing area, which had the shape of an elongated oval, a cylindrical, domed building stood, made of the same yellowish-white stone as the houses: most likely a control tower.

"Initiating landing sequence," Tigh said.

"Coordinates affirmed, sir," Cassiopeia replied.

Tigh tightened his grip on the joystick and made the _Antares_ draw a perfect eight in the air, performing the customary, Starfleet-issue greeting maneuver. Mohammed Jahma whistled in appreciation.

"Nice flying, Sir."

Tigh glanced back over his shoulder; a rare, quick smile flickered across his stern dark face.

"Thank you, Yeoman," and with that, he turned back to his instruments already. "Landing flaps extended. Attention, we're setting down!"

The _Antares_ sat down on the ground so softly that it could barely been felt in the passenger compartment. There could be no doubt that the colonel still understood his handiwork as few others did.

"Please, put on your masks before leaving the shuttle," Mohammed Jahma warned them.

They all obeyed, if not very enthusiastically, and the yeoman checked with the help of his tricorder whether the masks were properly sealed. As he found everything in order, Tigh opened the shuttle doors, and they could step out into a new world.

Despite the circumstances, it was a unique feeling he could never got tired of.

At the first step, the heat and the stench of the nearby swamps hit them like a brick wall. Although they all originated from worlds with fairly hot climates (well, with the exception of Cassiopeia), it took them a few minutes – having spent so much time in the artificial environment of a spaceship – until they could breathe again. Krsna was the only exception; while the others were still gasping for air, he cheerfully enjoyed the "pleasant warmth".

There was definitely something to be said for reptilian physiology, Tigh decided, feeling uncomfortably hot in his form-fitting uniform. He almost wished he'd come in the lofty robes of a Colonial councillor. At least those left one some room to breathe.

Barely had they departed, a few people came from the control tower to great them: the elderly female they'd recently spoken to; three other females with much paler blue skin, who were apparently a lot younger; and two middle-aged males, whatever that meant for Denebians. The usual greeting rituals were performed, with many bows; Denebian names were told that the humans could barely understand and even less remember; then, led by the old woman, they were escorted to the _ch'rpa_ – the meeting house of the small settlement they'd seen from the shuttle.

P'R'Vtí had obviously not wasted her time, as the representatives of the other three Denebian races were waiting for them already. There was a soft-speaking, bald-headed old male for the _Klaha_, whose name sounded something like Sha'K'tri M'hoshai; a slim, silver-haired woman for the _Eyrenii_, and the pale blue, greying L'K'Smna for the _!hew_. Needless to say that the greeting ceremony had to be repeated, with all the bows and folded hands and ritual words, and at the end Tigh's back hurt worse than after a long patrol in his youth. But after all finalities were properly done, they could finally sit on the pillows strewn all over the patterned stone floor, so that the humans could explain the reason of their visit.

"I'm afraid the situation on Thimsel is serious," said, after the first quick questions, U'R'Mlaa, the silver-haired _Eyrenii_ woman. She looked very elegant in her artistically draped, brightly coloured cloth that she wore in the same manner as Hindu women on Earth their _sari_. Yet her shape seemed… irregular, somehow, way too flat on the front for a woman. Tigh made a mental note to ask Dr. M'Benga, the chief xenobiologist of the _Enterprise_, whether Denebian females didn't have breasts at all, or his eyes were fooled by the extravagant draping of their clothes. "So serious, indeed, that the representatives of our people got into a… a great disagreement about possible solutions. For the first time since we decided to leave our home system and build a colony on this far-away world, I may add."

"Is that the reason why you've left Thimsel way before schedule?" Krsna asked.

"No; it was just one of the various reasons that led to a hurried exodus, in the end," L'K'Smna said grimly.

"But the actual, question, the one you need to find an answer for, and soon, is: what kind of power rules on Thimsel at the moment; and whom does the planet truly belong?" the old _Klaha_ added quietly.

"As far as I know, it's a Terran colony, with some Centaurian participation," Krsna replied in surprise. "According to the latest reports, the colony leader was a certain Govan Ra'khal; an agricultural expert of some importance, from Centaurus itself."

"That might have been the case a few years ago," L'K'Smna shook his head, "but surely not during the time _we_ spent on Thimsel. We've never heard that name; nor did we see any Centaurian emblems – or even Centaurians, for that matter – anywhere in Aeropolis."

"Although we must admit that it's very hard for us to tell a Terran from a Centaurian," U'R'Mlaa added apologetically. "In our eyes, your species are fairly similar… well, except for the genital pouch of Centaurian males, that is. "

The discussion was interrupted by two young boys who entered the meeting house carrying large brass trays, loaded with small white and brown scoops that smelled awfully sweet. This dessert was offered to anyone, while a third boy hurried around with a large glass flagon, pouring everyone some of that bizarrely coloured purple liquid Denebians called an _aperitif_. Tigh had never thought that something like purple brandy could exist – for the "aperitif" turned out to be a fairly potent beverage – and that if would be so ungodly strong and bitter. Perhaps drinking it was the only way to survive the tooth-achy sweetness of the dessert that seemed – and tasted – as if its basic ingredient would have been milk that had gone quite wrong.

The Denebians rolled the small scoops in their mouths with both tips of their forked tongues (and that visibly to anyone at the table); well, perhaps reptilian taste buds worked in a vastly different way than human ones. Nonetheless, refusing to try this delicacy that seemed to be very popular by the locals would have been an affront they couldn't afford. And since Mohammed Jahma's tricorder affirmed that they can take off their masks without risking any infections, there was no escape route out of the horror for them.

Tigh felt a whole new level of respect for Cassiopeia, seeing that the _socialator_ not only tried everything that was offered but was also capable of simulating enjoyment over the fairly disgusting delicacies. It seemed that accept her as his diplomatic attaché had been a clever move, after all, despite his original doubts.

Having survived this special kind of torture, two young women came in, serving the local equivalent of tea. Fortunately, everyone was allowed to sweeten their drink according t personal taste, which meant for all humans no sweetening at all. After three cups of scalding hot and _very_ bitter tea, Tigh's system finally recovered from the previous sugar attack, so that he was capable of detached observation again. The light tunics of the waitresses affirmed his first impression: Denebian females, in fact, had no breasts. Which raised the suspicion that Denebians, as a reptilian species, perhaps reproduced by lying eggs. Which would be only logical, after all.

The colonel shook his head to force his thoughts back on the actual mission. Exobiological observations might be interesting, but they weren't the purpose of his presence on this world. He'd come to gather information about the events on Thimsel, for the Federation as well as for his further career.

"If the Centaurian is no longer the leader of the colony, who is considered as the governor now?" he asked the silver-haired _Eyrenii_ woman. U'R'Mlaa tugged on the fold of her _sari_ that he'd pulled onto her head, veil-like, thoughtfully.

"Well, we were forced to deal with a certain Governor Marouk," she replied slowly. "If he's really the highest official authority of the colony, though, or if someone else is 'pulling the strings from behind', as Terrans would say, we could never find out."

"Was he the one who's forced you to move to K'rta 2 before schedule?" Tigh asked. The _Eyrenii_ nodded.

"Nominally, at least. But he must have had supporters on higher places. We've sent an official protest to the Federation Undersecretary of Agrarian Affairs, but we never got any answer. The whole thing is very… peculiar."

"Do you believe the colony has been infiltrated somehow, or taken over completely," Tigh frowned. He was tending to believe so, himself.

U'R'Mlaa stretched her neck with a graceful gesture: the Denebian equivalent of a shrug.

"I don't understand much about politics, Colonel Tigh. None of us here do. But I think Starfleet has to find out what's going on on Thimsel. Something is very wrong there."

"We need hard facts to ask for an investigation," Mohammed Jahma said. As no higher-ranking Starfleet officers were present, as the most experienced one, he had to steer things onto the official path.

"We can give you all the facts known to us," the soft-speaking old _Klaha_ said. "It's up to you what you're doing with them, though. The affairs of the humans are not our concern. All we need is contact to the homeworld."

* * *

Unfortunately, the facts known to the Denebians weren't terribly numerous, and mostly limited to events that influenced their fate directly. The rest was nothing but rumours and guesswork. Besides, they were more concerned with their internal turmoil that had divided their own ranks, caused by said events on Thimsel. They were eager to discuss their local problems with Krsna as a mediator, and the diplomat, recognizing how much needed his influence was, agreed to help them.

Since they didn't want outsiders present on those meetings, Tigh and his landing party were offered a guided tour through the nearby settlement. It was just a short walk from the landing area, their guide, a dark blue _Deirr_ woman assured them – they'd given up the effort to remember any more Denebian names – and she'd be happy to answer any questions they might have.

The idea of wandering through the carboniferous equivalent of a rainforest didn't fill Tigh with enthusiasm, to be perfectly honest. But learning as much as he could about Federation members – especially as elusive ones as the Denebians – was important, and Ensign Tamura's excited face revealed what a rare offer this was, so he accepted the invitation.

He had to admit that the houses – if one could call those temple-like constructions _houses_, even though they were very obviously simple living areas – were beautiful. The carvings had a depth that surprised him, considering the exceptional hardness of the stone that served as building material, and he found the details amazing. They reminded him a bit of Delphian art – it seemed that reptiloid cultures had something in common, no matter of which remote corner of the universe they had come.

The legends depicted on the reliefs were foreign to him, of course, but the visualization was clear enough so that he could at least guess what he was seeing. One scene in particular captured his imagination. It was some sort of myth, depicting the birth of the universe from what seemed a great egg, bursting apart, spewing suns and planets and whole galaxies in all directions. Another one showed the birth of the four Denebian species from four eggs, upon which a fairly bizarre sort of avian had sat: it had a scaled body and a lizard-like head with a strong beak, but also long, brightly-coloured tail and wing feathers, and a feather plum upon its sleek head.

"The Great Bird of the Galaxy," their guide explained, "the mother of all living things that come from an egg. That's why she's depicted on the walls of every hatchery."

"Oh," Ensign Tamura said with genuine interest. "So this building is…"

"… where our eyes hatch, yes," their guide nodded. "Would you like to see it from the inside?"

"Is it allowed?" Tamura asked in surprise.

"Of course," the guide said. "They're behind glass, so you can't carry in any harmful germs – and the little ones aren't sentient before hatching, so your presence won't disturb them."

"In that case I'd love to visit them," Tamura said.

The guide tilted her head in that peculiar lizard-like manner common to all Denebians and led them into the moist, dimly-lit inner area of the building. The room they entered looked strangely like the vivarium of a zoo. Embedded into all four walls, there were rectangular show-boxes of glass, accessible only from the back rooms, where the nurses worked. Each box was filled with wet sand and illuminated by special lamps that reproduced the radiation of the sun of the Denebian home system.

Half buried in the sand lay the eggs themselves. They were not oval as the humans would have expected but completely round like coconuts. They even had a hairy surface like coconuts, but not in brown – in the same shades of blue as the skin of the four Denebian species.

"They're just about to hatch," their guide explained. "The eggs are smooth first, of course, or else laying them would be extremely painful. The surface roughens up during the last phase of hatching. That makes it easier for the little ones to break through the leathery shell."

"Are they always warmed on one side only?" Tamura, infected by Sulu's exobiological interests, asked. The _Deirr_ nodded.

"Reptilian eggs are different from avian ones," she explained. "They didn't have an air bubble that could wander within the shell. The embryos must stay on the upper side, or they would suffocate. Also, the temperature of the egg influences the offspring's gender. Higher temperatures would result in female offspring; lower ones would produce male ones. That's how we keep up the gender balance within our society."

"That's practical," Tamura commented.

The _Deirr_ stretched her neck in the Denebian equivalent of a shrug.

"It's a common trait in many reptilian species," she said. "Do you want to see the hatchlings as well?"

"Are some of them already hatched?" Tamura could barely contain her excitement.

"Of course," the _Deirr_ said. "We're bound by biological mating cycles, that's true, but those are different by all four Denebian subspecies. So we have hatchlings of different ages all year long."

"Are your subspecies genetically compatible?" Tigh inquired.

"Theoretically, members of different subspecies could produce offspring," the _Deirr_ replied, "but as by all hybrids, they would be infertile. Besides, synchronizing the different mating cycles would be too complicated – and the result not worth the energy and resources. The genetic differences are small, but significant."

She led them to the adjoining room, which looked very much like the hatchery, with the only difference that the glass showboxes here were much larger. In those boxes, resting on the sand under green and yellow bushes of local fern, little blue lizards of various sizes and hues could be seen. Aside from the skin colour, they had no likeness to the adult Denebians at all.

"These are your… _children_?" Tigh was astonished.

His previous experience with reptilians was limited to the Delphians, who reproduced through eggs, too. But Delphians hatched their eggs at home, and when the shell broke, the babies came out fully developed – just smaller than the adults. It seemed that the Denebians had a very different life cycle.

The _Deirr_ nodded. "I'm told that human embryos undergo a quickened evolution process within the womb before taking on the human form," she said. "The same happens with our offspring – just outside the egg. It takes a full Denebian year – which is roughly four standards years – for the process to end and for the hatchling to become fully sentient."

"And they're kept here all the time?" Tigh asked with a frown. "Not with their families?"

"We don't have 'families' in the human sense of the word," the _Deirr_ explained. "Our offspring is raised by their respective clans; it's a custom from the ancient past when it provided the hatchlings with increased safety. We do keep records of the individual bloodlines, of course, but only to keep the gene pool healthy. The loyalties of each individual are to the genome he or she belongs to – and, on the bigger scale, to the subspecies. That makes us more flexible and mobile towards the needs of our society."

"How are the mating partners chosen, then?" Tigh asked.

"By the clan elders," the _Deirr_ answered. "Each genome is divided into a number of clans, based on the bloodlines. It's genetically preferable to mate with someone from a different clan – a different genome is even better – in order to avoid too much inbreeding. Those are the main criteria, aside from the personal advantages of a possible bondmate. It's a very effective system; ninety-two per cent of the choices turn out a good match."

"Does it mean that you don't have any saying in this, individually?" Tamura asked. The _Deirr_ shook her head.

"No; and we don't even want it. The elders have great experience, they are more likely to make a good choice than a just matured individual. We don't feel the sort of imminent physical and emotional attraction to the opposite gender as most other species do, since, theoretically, each of us could easily have been born the other way round. Thanks to our mild telepathic abilities, though, and with the help of our crystal implants, the new bondmates gradually grow closer their entire lives long, creating a bond of deep, intimate friendship and understanding."

"Like Vulcans?" Tamura asked.

"In a sense, but on a much wider scale," the _Deirr_ replied. "We can extend the bond to our respective clan members and unite our mental abilities. That's how Denebian telekinesis works – the larger the object we need to move, the more people have to participate."

"Is that how you've managed to build all this, in a few years only?" Tigh was impressed.

"Part of it," the _Deirr_ said. "Telekinesis is a useful ability, but it drains one's strength very quickly. We try to use the traditional methods whenever possible and only turn to our Psi-powers when there's no other way."

"Do you have older children here, too?" Tamura asked. "I'd be interested in the different stages of growing into your adult form."

"Alas, no," the _Deirr_ said. "We only started to breed after coming here from Thimsel – and even that not right away. As I said, telekinesis absorbs a lot of strength, and our young females weren't able to lay fertile eggs for awhile, after the first cycle of home-building had been finished. Plus, there was – well, actually there still _is_ – a great deal of disagreement among the different clans, even within the same genome. There were those who refused to breed, saying that we'd have to leave this world anyway, and would only lose the hatchlings in the process."

"Could that really happen?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Before growing out fully, they're very sensitive to environmental changes. That's the other reason why we keep them in these glass boxes, aside from protecting them from possible infections."

"But now that you'll be able to get more support from the homeworld, you'll also be able to keep the colony, won't you?" Tigh asked. The _Deirr_ sighed.

"Personally, I hope so," she said. "This is our first endeavour to swarm out of our home system, and we need new space for living badly. But it's not that simple. The continuing existence of the colony has been brought to official debate already, and now we have no other choice than to bring it to an end, through every level of decisive authorities – up to the highest, which is the Ruling Senate of the Denebian system. And if the Elders declare our colony a failure, we'll have to leave this planet and return to the homeland."

"Won't that endanger the hatchlings just the same?" Tigh asked.

"Of course it would," the _Deirr_ agreed sourly. "But the mere idea of colonizing a planet so far away from the home system has been fought from the beginning. If the isolationists manage to prove that out so-called failure happened because we left the 'core of life', as they call our home primary star, it could set back any other colonization process for decades, if not longer. Fanatics are rarely logical, and it's frightening sometimes what a big following they can gather in seemingly no time at all."

"Can't Special Emissary Krsna help to plead your case with the authorities?" Tigh asked.

"I hope so," the _Deirr_ replied gravely. "He couldn't have arrived at a better time."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10 Gartov

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

While creating the Tellarite colony, I followed the lead of Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens as given in their novel _Memory Prime_. They were the ones coming up with the asteroid reconstruction companies. Generally, all their books are a treasure chest for background trivia on little-known Original Series species.

Gartov was the Tellarite diplomat killed in the episode "Babel".

According to _The Worlds of the Federation_ by Shane Johnson, _Miracht_ is the indigenous name of Tellar.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 10 – GARTOV**

Geeta turned away from the diagrams blinking on her viewscreen, narrowed her deep, dark eyes and looked around in the control room. Well, control _cave_ would have been a more accurate word for the cavernous room that took up almost the entire space in the inside of the Type-S asteroid – save the habitat areas that had been carved even deeper into the rock that made up this barren little stellar body and were accessible through short tunnels. All around her, the thin air was filled with the humming of the machines and the small noises of her co-workers going after their business.

For the last couple of years, this had been their home. A sparse and frugal living space, but it had to be enough while her tireless workers laboured down on the surface of the inhospitable planet that had captured the asteroid millions of years ago, to make it its moon. The planet that was now named Gartov, in honour of _Miracht'_s venerable representative in the Federation council. The planet that would become a second _Miracht_ one day – just richer and more pleasant than the homeworld – providing a new home for thousands of families.

As the leader of the terraforming program, Geeta liked to daydream about this – hopefully not so far – future, and she genuinely liked her work. For this very reason, she didn't really mind that the cooperation with the humans on Thimsel had ended rather abruptly. Terrans had no sense for the pleasant excitement of work; in their presence, even the most promising task turned into numb labour, sooner or later.

_Here_, on the other hand, in the control room, the centre of all activities, as well as down on the planet, only people of _Miracht_ were working, and one could almost taste the joyous excitement. As it should always be when important work was being done.

The engineer furled her board nose, trying to get additional information through smells. As the thick vapours covering her home planet practically never lifted, evolution had chosen a path on which keen eyesight had become of lesser importance. Like most adults of her race, Geeta had long ago lost the ability of recognizing details from a distance longer than two metres. On the other hand, she heard even better than the average Vulcan, and she could analyze airborne scents and pheromones with a precision that rivalled that of a tricorder.

Right now, the scents travelling in the recycled air of the control room were carrying a pleasant message: they announced the arrival of Zef, her partner and the father of her children, who'd been working on an outpost, down on the planet surface, for several cycles. He was a very good environmental technician, the terraforming process depended on people like him, but this also meant that he had to spend long working cycles away from home. And that put a lot of strain on Geeta, now that she was shortly after giving birth to their second litter.

Looking up to make out the familiar shape of her partner, Geeta recognized the bright yellow security marking among the smudged shapes of her co-workers. This broad stripe made the grey metal railing alongside the overlapping sections of artificial gravity fields very visible, even for week Tellarite eyes – a precaution that was necessary to avoid work-related accidents.

Theoretically, the pseudo-gravity generated by the asteroids natural rotation could have made working inside the rock easier, but even after a year of hard work they hadn't been able to build up all the supporting scaffoldings, and the other engineers didn't want to put more strain upon the rocky "shell". So they'd rather set up grav generators on the asteroid's surface, creating both high-grav and zero-grav zones in the inside, whichever made work less complicated.

_As if that wouldn't put enough stain on hull stability_, Geeta thought, sighing. She'd been against that solution from the beginning but got outvoted. Discussions like that happened a lot, and the end result was always a compromise none of the parties involved would be completely happy with.

Since they'd had to leave Thimsel before finishing the phase of basic preparations – and the emphasis was on the word _had_ here – Geeta's work hadn't gotten any easier. Leaving Thimsel had also meant that they'd lost contact with the other worlds of the Federation, _Miracht_ above all, and they had to work with what little the first cargo transport ships had loaded off on the asteroid. And though that meant high quality, both where workers _and_ equipment was considered, the resources were limited, and the workers had grown tired. The speed had slowed down, their performance became unreliable.

Geeta didn't blame them, really. Two thousand Tellarite construction workers could work hard and do miracles sometimes. But one couldn't expect them to colonize an entire planet on their own, without supplies.

Geeta sighed again. The cycle was almost over, but the pillars meant for the sweet water basin planned for the first settlement down on the planet were still not set in. They were still waiting up here, on the large platform of the cargo transporter. That was definitely not good.

"If we keep falling back behind schedule like this…" Geeta had the unpleasant feeling that she'd have to work a double cycle again. Which meant another ten standard days before she could afford a day off and spend some time with her family in the warm mud of the Common Baths. The thought was definitely depressing. Usually, things only ever progressed this slowly when she had to work with humans.

To be honest, her dislike of Terrans didn't have any particular reason – aside from the stench that was so typical for these peculiar omnivores – but she didn't feel comfortable among them. The worst thing was that Terrans apparently couldn't make any difference between the time-honoured, constructive insults of the Polite Speech and rude remarks that were mostly aimed at the other person's questionable origins. Only Vulcans had an even worse sense of humour.

On the other hand, it was the variability that made the universe so interesting. And that was the very reason why Geeta and Zef, at that time young and childless, had left _Miracht_ for the first time. A decision that she hadn't regretted yet, despite the circumstances.

She sighed for the third time within the hour and dragged the sensitive inner side of her three-fingered hoof along her screen's control surface. When the diagram vanished from the 2x1 metre display – she had long gotten used to the ridiculous metric scale of Federation Standard – then she sniffed the air again, to see who else aside from Zef had arrived for the change of shifts.

The twenty-four construction workers were still too far away for her to recognize their personal characteristics. All she could make out were the bright yellow protective vests and helmets. The scent, however, was enough to realize that seven of them were from her own tribe – a tribe that had exclusive rights to send workers to any workplace of Interworlds Constructions, not the last because they raised the best mechanics and technicians on the entire _Miracht_.

Terraforming – and asteroid restructuring as a side project of it – belonged to the very few dangerous occupations that couldn't be completely done by machines. Because of this, one needed workers for the job who'd come full of enthusiasm and who found fulfilment in creating brand new worlds… sometimes with their very hooves. Tellarites, who considered an honour to build new worlds, were ideal for the job.

Geeta switched on her viewscreen again, this time to check out the working plans for the next cycle, when the klaxons went off. The sound came from the loudspeakers placed high above her head and signalled the end of her working cycle. Unfortunately, that didn't mean she could leave at once. They were behind schedule, unsettingly so, and that meant she had to instruct the foremen before they beamed down to the planet about what they had to do additionally, and what they had to leave alone, even though it _had_ been scheduled for the next cycle.

Geeta glanced up at the domed rock ceiling, four kilometres above her head, and even with her week eyes, she could see the glowing of the illumination rods in the areas of the asteroid that had no atmosphere. The pulsing of the light was a signal for the workers in pressure suits, who could not hear the klaxons, to finish work and return to the habitable areas.

It was straining their resources considerably that they needed to work on the asteroid itself as well as down on the planet surface, but that couldn't be helped. They needed this naked piece of rock, for living quarters and storage space. The only other solution would have been the building of domed cities down on the planet and live there until the terraforming was finished, but they simply didn't have the resources to do _that_.

Of course, they wouldn't be having these problems, had they been able to leave their families back on Thimsel, as originally intended. They would be able to keep steady contact with the homeworld, too. New cargo transporters would be coming; further workers and materials would be supplied steadily. Geeta grunted in frustration. There was just no way to ask for support from home, and who knew when the authorities would realize that the broken contact actually meant problems?

In the meantime, the group of workers had reached the briefing room, situated next to the personnel transporter. They unfastened their safety lines – crossing low-gravity areas needed precaution – and were now waiting for instructions. Geeta saw with relief that this was the shift of Tof, a very capable foreman, who knew his workers like the underside of his own hoof and could explain them the task in question with a few harsh snorts and growls.

_Nobody_ asked stupid questions with Tof in charge.

And indeed, debriefing was done in record time. Barely twenty minutes later, the cargo transporter began to rattle. The noise was at a lower level than by other similar devices, as this particular transporter worked at a lower frequency, saving a lot of energy that way, which, considering their thinly-stretched resources, was a bitter necessity. On the other hand, it also influenced the device's safety level; so much that only inanimate objects were allowed to be put through it, no living beings. But at least work was continued without too long interruptions, and Geeta watched in delight as half a dozen solid black pillars, made of some sort of super-density plastic, twenty metres long and a metre in diameter each, dematerialized from the transporter platform to take in shape again down on the planet surface.

"If we can go on like that," she said to Zef contentedly, "we might be able to catch up with backlog work within the next ten cycles, and be back to schedule within the following five or six. Tof has never disappointed me. I was greatly relieved to see him and his brigade coming."

And indeed, once again the foreman proved his excellent people's skills. He motivated his subordinated with selected insults according to the rules of the Polite Speech, while helping them to fasten the antigrav units on the pillars, never afraid of making his own hooves dirty. The mechanics obeyed eagerly, finishing the task in record time, and then they marched over to the personnel transporter, happy and willing to work even more and harder.

"Go home, roll over and stuff that bottomless belly of yours," suggested Tof his boss in a friendly manner. "I'll whip these lazy tree-snails on in the meantime, so that they'd move their fat bottoms a little faster."

Geeta blew up her cheeks in delight… and in relief. Thanks to Tof, she could not only keep the excitement of her work, she could also afford to have evening meal with her family – something she hadn't been able to do for a long time. They'd had to work overtime for several cycles by now. The Terrans called that 'moonlighting" – an expression she couldn't understand, especially as they were currently living on a piece of rock that could barely be _called_ a moon. Perhaps the Vulcans were right: Terrans really were highly illogical people. She was glad that she didn't have to work with them anymore.

"Thank you, Tof," she replied quietly. "I appreciate it, I really do," then she raised her voice. "Considering that you're nothing but a beer-swilling wart hog."

Tof gave a happy, satisfied grunt and hurried over to the personnel transporter, sure-footed despite his barrel-shaped torso, to follow his workers to the planet surface. Geeta switched the viewscreens to automatic observation, and Zef and she returned to their cave in the habitat area.

These were not the most comfortable quarters they'd even shared, but at least they could be together and have the children with them. Their first set of six were almost grown by now, old enough to do most of the mundane household tasks – like preparing meals and cleaning their cave – while the younger ones, born on Thimsel already, helped where they could. They were all wearing blue coveralls, with a large, light-reflecting badge on the chest that showed their names, the names of their parents and the number of the habitat area where they lived. This was a simple precaution; should a child get lost in the numerous tunnels of the asteroid – although that was unlikely, as Tellarite children were extremely responsible – every adult could bring them home.

When Geeta and Zef reached their quarters, the older litter were done with cooking already – well, if programming the food processor unit could be called cooking, that is – and the little ones had laid the table. Now they all came to the central cave and sat down around the long, low table. The meal was excellent indeed; so good that Geeta made a few Polite Remarks. That was a great honour, coming from the parent, and the older children were beaming with pride.

"They're doing well," Zef commented, in the tone of highest appreciation, "but that's not really surprising. After all, they come from a mother who…"

Geeta never learned what kind of compliment her usually so reserved partner was going to make, because in that very moment a faint but well-recognizable tremor ran through the entire asteroid.

At least that was what it felt like. The gravitation field of the habitat area became unstable; the lights began to blink, and various objects were floating away from their previous places with eerie slowness. Geeta leaned against the nearby wall, trying to find some kind of hold; it was a feeling as if unseen waves would throw her back and forth. The G-alarm howled from every loudspeaker inside the asteroid, warning everyone _not_ to leave their quarters, unless absolutely necessary, as the local gravitational constants had begun to fluctuate.

The younger children panicked, rolling on the floor – well, actually slightly _above_ it – with high-pitched screeches. The older ones grabbed each other in one big heap of round, gold-furred little bodies, as they'd learned on the emergency training; only their quiet, fearful squeals revealed their terror. Never before had any of them experienced a G-alert, and the loss of stability frightened them out of their minds.

A moment later it was over – just as abruptly as it had begun. The floating items sealed down onto the various flat surfaces where they'd been placed before. The older children, although still trembling, picked up the little ones, trying to calm them down. Geeta had a hard time to keep her own rising panic in check – and was extremely grateful for Zef's solid presence.

"What… what was _that_?" she asked, miraculously capable of keeping the tremor out of her voice.

Zef's mien was grim, his long, golden sideburns trembling with agitation.

"Our Tennet 5 fighters had started from the surface," he replied. "_All_ of them."

* * *

The eight planet of Iacta Tau A was _not_ a pretty world, so Will Decker didn't even bother to look down while the _Copernicus_ was flying just above the atmosphere with supersonic speed. Instead, he leaned back in the co-pilot's seat and tried to relax. He'd had little sleep in the recent days, and he hadn't slept well, even if he could, so a bit of rest was welcome. The cabin was pleasantly quiet, safe from the low-voiced murmurs of Yeoman Landon, who was meticulously scanning the planet below them and dictating the results to the mission log.

"Forty-seven per cent of the planet surface is covered with water. However, there are only two small oceans, the rest consist of large, relatively shallow lakes of fresh water. They are surrounded by extensive swamps. The average surface temperature is seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Relative humidity is eighty-two per cent. The damp is fairly thick. The whole planet looks very much like Tellar, on a particularly ugly rainy day."

"Which is most likely the reason why the Tellarites have chosen it for colonization," Yeoman Lemli commented, giving the pretty young woman an experimental smile. "It has home, sweet home written all over it."

Lemli was Andorian and thus traditionally a bit hostile towards Tellarites – a feeling that was heartily reciprocated by every stray Tellarite that might come his way. These two races, although both founding members of the Federation, had never gotten along too well.

Martha Landon pulled a face. "A very clever observation. Mr. Lemli. How have you managed to land in the security department with your genius?"

"Leave it, Landon!" Lieutenant Osborne, the tall, dark-haired, pleasant-mannered senior security officer, in his veins – according to gossip – with the blue blood of British admirals, said in a quiet, annoyed voice. "Just because your affair with the Chief hasn't survived our first mission, you shouldn't be so unpleasant to everyone."

"Commander Decker!" Lieutenant Rhada exclaimed, and the first officer, startled from his half-slumber, became highly alert in a second again. "Sensors are detecting unidentified vessels, approaching with high velocity. There are six of them, and they're flying in tight formation. They're _fast_, sir… and they're approaching in an angle of two five two from _above_ us," she added, a bit flabbergasted.

"Goddamn paranoid Tellarites!" Decker cursed. "And we have nothing but the mini-phasers installed on our shuttle. All right, Lieutenant, prepare for evasive maneuvers, while I'll try to reason with our welcoming committee."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the pilot replied, withholding the comment about the hopeless nature of the attempt to reason with _Tellarites_.

Decker leaned forward in his seat, switching on the short-range communications unit on his co-pilot's board.

"Attention, unidentified vessels," he said in that even, official tone that had been trained into every cadet of command school. "This is Lieutenant Commander Willard Decker, First Officer of the Federation starship _Enterprise_. Identify yourselves!!

For a moment, only the crackling of static could be heard, then the answer came in the unmistakable guttural voice of a Tellarite – a _female_ Tellarite.

"This is Security Chief Dova of the Tellarite colony Gartov. What do you want?"

No one could _ever_ accuse Tellarites of overdoing with platitudes. Well, at least they were straightforward.

"We've been dispatched to find out why subspace communications with this system had been broken," Decker answered, according the truth. "And since our scans have shown dramatic changes in Thimsel's general environment, it seemed better to seek contact with the colonies of K'rta 2 and Gartov first, in order to gain more detailed information."

He recognized the strange grunts coming from the loudspeaker as the Tellarite equivalent of laughter. He'd heard it before often enough.

"Well, then you're on the worst possible course, Terran," the invisible Tellarite security officer said finally. "We'll transmit the right coordinates and escort you to our people. Dova out."

With that, the connection was terminated before Decker could have replied. At the same time, the navigations computer began to hum in front of Lieutenant Rhada.

"Data for the course correction are coming in," the Ojibwa woman reported; then she turned around with widening eyes. "Sir, this course wouldn't take us to anyplace on the planet surface. They're redirecting us to a small moon – well, rather an asteroid – on the other side of the planet."

Decker frowned. "Perhaps they have a base there."

"Or perhaps they don't want us to come near their colony," Lieutenant Osborne commented. "Who knows what might have happened on Thimsel? Perhaps the Tellarites do have a very good reason to be mistrustful – this time."

"You may be right," Decker nodded sourly, "and _that_ makes me slightly… uncomfortable."

* * *

A moment later six more Tennet 5 fighters (of the same construction as the previously discovered unknown vessels) swoooshed forth from behind the curve of the planet where they had been hiding, and take up a tight formation above, below and on both sides of the _Copernicus_. Decker was all too aware of the fact that Lieutenant Rhada couldn't have changed course without risking a collision. Tennet 5 vessels were one-man combat fighters; they only had simple engines, but the firepower of their phaser banks exceeded that of any lightly armed merchant ship, and they could penetrate the duranium hull of any vessel they caught without its shields raised with a single shot. They could have smashed the _Copernicus_ like a fly, and that fact gave Decker an uncomfortably helpless feeling indeed. His anxiety was growing steadily as they were herded along the course given by the Tellarites.

About an hour after their first encounter, Gartov's moon showed up on their screens? An irregularly-shaped asteroid that had most likely been trapped in the planet's gravitational pull and ended up in its orbit by accident, a long time ago. The comm system creaked alive again.

"We've arrived, _Copernicus_. Course to the landing area is nine two seven. The asteroid doesn't have an external atmosphere, so you'll need pressure suits and protective helmets. Wait in the landing area after leaving your vessel until someone comes for you. Dova out."

Once again, the Tellarite terminated the connection one-sidedly, and Decker sighed. He tried to remember the selected – and time-honoured – insults one used to impress high-ranking Tellarites, and while Lieutenant Rhada was approaching the landing area with exquisite care, he tried to get the proper intonation of the Polite Speech right.

"Landing flaps extended, sir," Lieutenant Rhada reported. "We're setting down."

In the meantime, Lieutenant Osborne was taking the pressure suits and protective helmets out of the lockers with military efficiency and handed a set to each of them. These had been constructed to enable Starfleet personnel to visit planets with poisonous atmospheres – or with no atmosphere at all. The others accepted the gear without enthusiasm but put it on obediently. Safety suits were a necessary evil that one had to accept in the line of duty. Besides, they were still a lot better than the heavy, jet-propelled EVA suits worn when repairs had to be done outside a starship.

One by one, they left the _Copernicus_ as instructed, and formed a line along the shuttle. In the meantime, the Tennet 5 fighters had landed, too, and the short, rotund Tellarites, wearing flight suits – one-man-fighters didn't have life support – approached the shuttle with a series of long, grotesque jumps. The practically nonexistent natural gravity of the asteroid eased their progress considerably, but it also made their movements unwillingly comical… until one noticed the heavy, old-fashioned Type II phaser pistols in their hands.

"Follow me to the control room," the intercom crackled in Decker's helm, and one of the Tellarites bounced forward into a direction known only to them. The others surrounded the landing party of the _Enterprise_ like herding dogs, making sure that not one of them would get the foolish idea of doing a walk on their own.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11 Polite Conversations

**THE** **LOST** **YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

While creating the Tellarite colony, I followed the lead of Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens as given in their novel _Memory Prime_. They were the one coming up with the asteroid reconstruction companies. Generally, all their books are a treasure chest for background trivial on little-known Original Series species. Gartov was the Tellarite diplomat killed in the episode "Babel".

In canon, Mr. Lemli (played by Roger Holloway) is a human character. I turned him into an Andorian to make the crew a bit more multi-cultural.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 6 – POLITE CONVERSATIONS**

Geeta was surprised to hear that the border patrol had found a Starfleet shuttle, but she wasn't ready to believe just yet that the newcomers truly were whom they declared themselves to be. The fact that they'd been looking for the colony on Gartov spoke for them, though. The people on Thimsel knew well enough where they had made the Tellarites move two years earlier.

One still couldn't completely rule out the possibility that this was a very shrewd invasion plan, however. Now that the Tellarites had made this lifeless rock somewhat habitable – and she of all people knew how much work _that_ had cost – the Terrans, who had no sense for asteroid restructuring, would probably _love_ to snatch the almost finished product away. Geeta decided to be very careful.

Fortunately, the homeworld had equipped them with an extensive machine par. Among other useful things, they had a medical computer for retina scans, which stored the IDs of every Starfleet officer from two years earlier. Unless the newcomers had begun their duty in the meantime – or if they were impostors, of course – the confirmation of their identities would be very easy.

Geeta transferred duty to her relief and ordered Dr. Gavar, the only doctor of the expedition, to the control room. Then she hurried over to her office – a long, narrow room with a low ceiling and a single window; that, however, occupied the entire side wall. Once the colony had moved to the tamed planet, this asteroid would become a border guard station and a spaceport. For that reason, the most important control- and guiding systems were already built into the inner wall permanently. Although only twenty per cent of them were online so far, the matte, multicoloured lights of the sensor controls gave the office the air of a high-tech lab.

Zef and Gavar were already waiting when Geeta arrived; Zef being the administrative leader of the expedition, although he worked just as hard on the construction site as everyone else. Geeta slid behind her semi-circular desk and climbed into the comfortable, rotating armchair with a contented grunt. She loved this desk, as it was Tellarite design: low enough for her to reach the floor with her feet and fully computerized, with sensor controls instead of the stupid throwing switches humans seemed to prefer for some reason. She grunted slowly again and waved to Zef to bring in the strangers.

The newcomers were a group of five individuals, Thanks to her long-time collaboration with Terrans, Geeta easily identified the three willowy, ridiculously long-limbed figures as the male representatives of the race, and the two shorter ones as females. They were all wearing the new Starfleet uniforms that had been introduced shortly after the Tellarites had left their homeworld. Geeta found that they looked somewhat less ridiculous in them like they had in the old uniforms, but still impossible enough to frighten young children.

Terrans were decidedly an ugly species.

Nonetheless, she decided to use the Polite Speech while dealing with them. After all, one couldn't completely rule out the possibility that they were, in fact, whom they claimed to be. And if they were, that would solve the majority of the colony's problems. If a Starfleet-ship was truly waiting somewhere within reach, that meant contact to the homeworld again. That meant Geeta would be able to order everything they needed to continue their work.

That meant that perhaps within a year or two, the large colonization ships could leave _Miracht_ for the Iacta Tau system, with thousands of families aboard, looking for a new home.

Taking such joyous possibilities into consideration, Geeta turned to the newcomers and raised her hoof in the traditional gesture of greeting.

"I was guessing rightly that I might feel the foul stench of hairless Terran skin," she bellowed, as they came closer.

Four of them were obviously startled by the volume – and, perhaps, the style – of her greeting. The fifth one, however, who had an alarming similarity to the naked tree-snails native to _Miracht_, extended a ridiculously long and thin arm, responding in kind.

"I seriously doubt that you could smell anything _at all_, through the stomach-churning _stink_ of your own, mud-caked hide!" he said.

Geeta grunted in delight. There it was – a rare exception, a human who understood the fine nuances of the Polite Speech. Things began to look promising. She could almost feel the warm mud of the Common Baths, where she would spend _hours_ – after they'd sent the long overdue subspace message to the homeworld.

She raised her hoof again, and the human grabbed it without hesitation, touching the sensor spots on the sensitive underside in the right sequence. That couldn't have been easy for him, with those too long and thin fingers. Geeta wondered sometimes how humans had been able to learn the use of sophisticated machines at all. Those _hands_ of them, with five dangling appendages, were perhaps useful when one had to wrap them around primitive tools, but way too unstable when it came to the handling of electronic equipment. Perhaps that was the reason why they still used those primitive throwing switches, instead of the much more efficient sensor controls developed by _civilized_ beings?

She gave the human a thorough look and realized that she was dealing with a fairly young individual. Unfortunately, age didn't seem to approve the newcomer's disgusting looks: the naked skin, the flat ears, the thin, dangling nose… Not to mention the eyes, those small, greyish-blue spots, surrounded by unhealthy whiteness, that reminded her of a corpse that had spent days in water.

Geeta needed all her self-discipline _not_ to shake with disgust – which would have been an unfortunate reaction under the given circumstances.

"By the moons of _Miracht_!" she screeched in the most polite manner possible, "Why has Starfleet sent Terran carrion-eater after us, perhaps to spy on us?"

The human pulled that grotesque face his kind used as a sign of amusement. _Smiling_, it was called.

"Nah; we've come because you fat-bellied wart hogs are not even capable of sending regular reports to your incompetent government," he replied; then, changing his manners, he added seriously. "Please, Colony Leader, we don't have the time for intelligent Polite Conversations right now. I have a mission to complete and little time to do it."

Geeta didn't bother to correct him; to say that she wasn't the leader of their colony just the head engineer. Unlike Tellarites, Terrans seemed obsessed with the idea to have _one_ person responsible for everything – it opened wide possibilities for tragic mistakes, but humans seemed unable to understand that.

"Very well," she said, turning serious herself. "But I'll have to check your IDs first. Are you OK with a retina scan?"

"Sure," the human nodded, and Geeta turned to the doctor.

"Dr. Gavar, if you feel up to do your job…?

"You'd make me clean your office if you thought you'd get away with it, wouldn't you?" Gavar growled. "I pray each day to the fog and the mud and to all litters of the heavens that we get some med-techs, and soon, so that I can finally do my own work, instead of treating every hangnail and paper cut."

"The sooner you move your fat backside to the scanner, the sooner can you return to your so-called work," Geeta riposted. Gavar was an excellent co-worker, very eager and competent – and a good friend of hers.

The human stooped over the scanner readily. Gavar fine-tuned the instrument and snorted at him to lay his hand upon the palm-scanning surface, too. The man obeyed, and the artificial voice of the computer announced the results almost immediately.

"Identity confirmed: Decker, Lieutenant Commander Willard. Graduated from Starfleet's Command School. Magister of computer sciences and warp technology. Previous assignment: USS _Constellation_. Current assignment: USS _Enterprise_. Commanding officer: Captain James T. Kirk."

Geeta had Gavar repeat the process with the other humans, just to play safe, and the scan confirmed their identities as well. Satisfied with the results, she called for chairs for the visitors, and they could finally discuss the more important matters at hand. At hoof. Whatever.

"According to our records, it wasn't planned that you should move from Thimsel to this asteroid," Decker cut straight to the middle of things. "Did you leave the planet voluntarily or were you forced to do so?"

"Well, it depends on your point of view," Geeta replied thoughtfully. "Of course, we were the last to arrive on Thimsel some five standard years ago. But even then, we didn't found what we'd have expected from the colony."

"What do you mean?" Decker asked.

"Well, I don't mean this as an insult, Mr. Decker – we're not having a Polite Conversation, after all – but one can't usually say about your species that they'd have no interest for anything else but work, right?" Geeta said.

"That's certainly true," Decker agreed with a faint smile.

"However, all the people we saw on Thimsel were practically obsessed with their work and could barely wait to have a 'payday'," Geeta continued. "Which was strange, actually, as we never saw anyone use a credit card. They bought nothing, they never went out, they didn't meet with friends, they didn't make any trips… nothing. In their spare time, assuming that they had any, they stood in those one-person comm niches like statues, connected to the comm-nets."

"That's really strange!" Decker murmured. "What's being broadcast through those nets?"

"Nothing unusual, as far as _we_ can tell," Geeta raised her broad nose, which was the Tellarite equivalent of a shrug. ". "Mostly some kind of music; and ads that encouraged people to work more and harder and better. It's possible, of course, that our brains don't react to certain stimuli that humans would find irresistible."

"That's for certain," Dr. Gavar growled. "If they're not high on something, then I've never seen an addict before. And believe me, Lieutenant Commander, I've seen a lot of things on the Tartarus Penal Colony in my time as a field medic."

"I've no doubt about your expertise," Decker nodded. "Was that the reason why you left Thimsel, in the end?"

"We've been separated from the inhabitants since the beginning," Geeta replied. "Only a chosen few of us were allowed to set foot in Aeropolis at all. But we _have_ noticed nevertheless that the colony's population was considerably larger than one would have thought, based on the official reports. Instead of some fifteen thousand, almost two hundred thousand people lived there at that time."

"Right now, Aeropolis is fully populated,"" Decker told her, "which means that at least one hundred thousand people must have been born or moved to Thimsel since you'd left. I still can't understand the rapid population growth."

"During our three years spent on Thimsel, we've noticed eight huge transport ships of unknown construction visiting the planet," Geeta took a few data chips from her desk drawer and handed them to Decker. "You should transfer the evidence to the authorities, Lieutenant Commander. Perhaps Starfleet Intelligence will be able to find out the origin of those ships. It seems to me, however, that they'd mostly delivered new colonists, who'd been sent directly to the mines or the processing plants. One of the ships, though, had brought exclusively female members of a species that's unknown to me. What happened to them, we could never find out."

"Is it possible that Thimsel's doing business with Orion slave traders?" Lieutenant Osborne, who'd been listening carefully, asked.

"We've considered that," Geeta admitted, "but those women were no green savages. They looked like Terrans… well, almost. I can't describe the actual difference to you, but they _were_ different somehow."

"Hmmmm…" Lieutenant Osborne said nothing else, but it was obvious that he had something on his mind. Decker assumed that he didn't want to speak about it in front of the Tellarites, so he decided to ask the man on their way back.

"Anyway," Geeta continued, "Governor Marouk was very… uncooperative towards us and made it abundantly clear that he wanted us off his planet, the sooner the better."

"That doesn't make any sense," Decker shook his head. "He should have been happy to have the skills and the knowledge of Tellarite construction workers to his disposal."

"That is what _we_ thought, too," Geeta agreed, "and we _have_ offered our help for the ten standard years we were supposed to spend on Thimsel, until the terraforming of our new home planet was completed."

"And? Has he refused your offer?"

"He told us quite directly that he had no use for us, as he had much better helpers – the same ones who'd built Aeropolis for them. And when he also denied us access to the subspace communications station, we became suspicious and decided to leave Thimsel."

"How did you manage to do that at all?" Decker asked.

"We still had the two huge cargo ships that had brought us here," Geeta explained, "and our equipment had been loaded off to the asteroid to begin with… for practical reasons. One third of our people had already been working here to tame at least part of the planet. We hadn't expected the necessity to move here for any extended period of time, of course, but many of us had worked for Interworld Corporations for many years, so reconfiguring this asteroid was for us neither new nor particularly challenging. It had been a considerable setback for our actual mission, though."

"Have you heard anything from Thimsel since then?" Decker asked.

"Not a word, thanks the moons of the homeworld," Geeta replied, expressing her gratitude towards t he higher powers by tapping her brow with a hoof. "And I'm not interested in any news from there, to be honest. Those people are _insane_!"

"Do you think they could become a threat for your colony?" Yeoman Landon inquired.

"They could become a threat for _anyone_," Geeta answered, ill-tempered. "It's not easy to protect sane people from madmen. Especially not when all we have to protect ourselves are twelve Tennet 5 fighters."

"Which is unusual enough on its own," Lieutenant Osborne commented calmly. "Where have you got those in the first place?"

"We've brought them with us," Geeta said, as if it were the most natural thing in the universe; for a Tellarite, it actually _was_. "Or do you think our government would be irresponsible enough to send us out on such a long trip without a minimum of protection?"

To her disappointment, Lieutenant Osborne didn't react to the provocation; he was digesting the news in silence.

"Well, at least we know more about what's going on than we had upon our arrival," Decker summarized what he'd been told so far. I think we should return to our ship, as soon as possible. Do you want to come with us and contact your government?"

"That's not necessary," Geeta said. "The data chips I gave you contain everything that's important for my government, in order to provide us with the support we need to go on. We still have a great deal to do here before our colonists can board their ships."

"I understand," Decker nodded, "Although I'm sorry that I won't have the pleasure of your company any longer. Even though you're nothing but a fat swine that delights in rolling in dirt and mud," he added, switching to the Polite Speech.

Geeta snorted in amusement.

"Tell me, you naked tree-snail, where have you learned the nuances of the Polite Speech?" she inquired. "It's highly unusual for a Terran."

Decker laughed. "The first officer of the _Constellation_ was a Tellarite by the name of Commander Tovar," he explained. "She must have liked me a great deal, because she aimed a lot of Polite Comments at me, all the time."

"And you've apparently listened carefully," Geeta almost choked on her laugher – and why shouldn't she be in a good mood? The news was promising, the conversation was inspiring, and the outlook of things gave her every reason for hope. "You must visit us again, in two years or so, to see what we've done with that not too inviting planet down there."

"I'll come if I can," Decker promised. "We need to leave now, though. I hope to achieve a better picture about the whole situation when the other landing party returns from the Denebians and we can compare our data. _Then_ we're taking out the rubbish from Thimsel."

"The blueskins migrated slowlier than we did," Geeta said, "But there were also more of them. When we moved here, there were still some two thousand of them living on Thimsel."

"Well, not a single one of those is left there now," Lieutenant Osborne commented dryly. "It seems Governor Marouk has found ways to speed up the migration process considerably… likely with the right amount of pressure to their leaders."

Geeta nodded. "It wouldn't' surprise me," she said grimly. "I hope there were no atrocities, although _that_ wouldn't surprise me, either. Can I count on your providing me with the details when all is done?"

"We'll set up a small relay-module after we've left," Decker promised. "That'll enable you to stay contact with us and also to contact your homeworld, as long as the _Enterprise_ remains in this system. I'll ask Commander Uhura to establish a permanent link for that time."

"That's very generous of you," Geeta rose from behind her desk. "I'll take my leave from you, then – I must return to my work."

The human performed the farewell rites as well as he'd done with the greeting earlier, and security escorted the landing party back to the shuttle. The sleek little vessel left the asteroid a few minutes later.

Geeta returned to her work. Now that they could count on support from home again, the terraforming process would go on much faster. She could almost see the large, solidly built cargo ships leaving _Miracht_'s orbit, their wide bellies filled with useful equipment, the necessary new materials for building the first habitats on the planet, seed and much more, and she shivered in delight. The image was almost as good as the warm mud of the Common Baths. Almost.

* * *

A few thousand kilometres away, Lieutenant Osborne was working at the board computer of the _Copernicus_ with the single-minded concentration only a well-trained security officer was capable of. He called up the date with a speed that not even Decker's trained eye could follow them. Even less was he able to recognize what exactly the security officer was looking for.

"Have you found anything of importance, Lieutenant Osborne?" he asked, when he couldn't hold back his impatience any longer.

"Not half as much as I've hoped for," Osborne replied, without looking up from the screen. "I need access to our security files in order to confirm my suspicion with data and some hard proof. But I'm afraid we might have a bigger problem here than we'd have thought, sir."

That wasn't the answer that would serve to put Decker's concerns to the rest, of course, but Osborne avoided any further questions with the same answer: that he needed to confirm his suspicions before saying anything else. So Decker gave up after a while. It was no use anyway.

The rest of their trip back went without further incidents. After docking in the shuttle hangar of the _Enterprise_, Decker made a short preliminary report and saw that Uhura's department built up the subspace link between Geeta's office and Tellar. By such distance it would take some time for the message to reach 61 Cygni, of course, but after two years of isolation it probably wouldn't count.

"I've also transferred the information from the data chips that Commander Decker had brought from the Tellarite asteroid, both to the authorities on Tellar _and_ to Starfleet Headquarters," Lieutenant Palmer reported to her department head, after the end of Beta shift.

"Good work, Liv," Uhura nodded. "Were you able to reach the _Antares_ as well?"

Palmer shook her head. "I'm sorry, Commander. They're still in that comm black hole; the interference to the primary star's radiation is too strong in that particular area. I'm really sorry…"

"That's all right; it's not your fault. Thank you for the report. Uhura out."

Uhura broke the connection and returned to her work in the comm lab with a sigh. She'd been trying to pick apart the broadcast of Thimsel's – well, Aeropolis' – local comm net for days, hoping that isolating its contents would give her a hint about its underlying purpose. The bombardment with music and inane ad clips couldn't had been broadcast for entertainment only… not that it _was_ entertaining to begin with, even considering the difference in personal tastes.

She hoped to find the determining factor that had made the people in Aeropolis so addicted to that insane programme. That would be the first step to find a cure against that particular addiction. So far, she hadn't found anything, which could mean two things.

Either her focus was weakened by her concern about Imaro being late, or it was time to consult a neuropsychologist about the problem.

"Computer," she said in the specific tone she always used when dealing with semi-intelligent machines, "where can I find Dr. Helen Noël:"

"Dr. Helen Noël is in the Officers' Lounge," the computer answered promptly.

"Well, doctor," Uhura murmured, "I hate to disturb your fun, but it's time you actually did something for your salary. Computer, patch me through to the Officers' Lounge!"

TBC


	12. Chapter 12 Debriefing and Tactics

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

I established the existence of the different Orion species for my story "Mission to Daleth IV". However, it's not entirely made up. In the original pilot of TOS, "The Cage", there is a rich Orion merchant who looks just like a human in Captain Pike's vision, as well as a green Orion dancer.

While Lieutenant Osborne is a canon character (one of the numerous redshirts), his background is my doing, and he's modelled after a Hungarian military officer I used to know – a pleasant-mannered and very competent man.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 12 – DEBRIEFING AND TACTICS**

Two days after the _Copernicus'_ return, the _Antares,_ too, docked in to the shuttle bay of the _Enterprise_ – without Krsna.

"Ambassador H'R'Krsna found it necessary to stay on K'rta 2, as there are apparently serious disagreements among the colonists," Colonel Tigh told the agitated Kirk. "However, he entrusted to me several encrypted data clips; and he asks us to forward the recorded information to the government of Deneb II without delay."

The frustration was getting too much for Kirk.

"Does this mean that you haven't learned what's going on on Thimsel, either?" he demanded.

"On the contrary," Tigh replied calmly. "But it wouldn't be wise to discuss it on the hangar deck, would it? If you'd be so good as to call the department leaders and the members of both landing parties to the conference room? In thirty minutes perhaps? I really need a hot shower first. The living conditions on K'rta 2 were… trying at best."

Kirk didn't really like that an outsider was giving orders on his ship, but considering the fact that Tigh had diplomatic privileges, he shut up and did as he's been asked. Fortunately – unlike other diplomats – the colonel was as punctual as the board chronometer, so Kirk didn't have to hold back his curiosity for too long.

"What we've heard from the Denebians lets assume that Thimsel doe no longer exist under the influence of the Federation," Tigh began, smoothing the walling folds of his white robes under him before sitting down. "In my opinion, what we have to do with there is a carefully planned and ruthlessly executed takeover. I've asked the members of both landing parties to participate in this briefing, in the hope that we can put together the respective pieces of information and so create a more or less complete picture. Commander Decker, would you mind telling us what you've learned from the Tellarites?"

"Certainly, Colonel," Decker gave a short summary of everything he'd learned from Geeta, showed them the data chips of the Tellarites, and then added. "Unfortunately, the library computer couldn't identify the cargo ships. The configuration isn't recorded in our databases."

"Nonetheless, I'm quite certain that they were Orion cargo ships," Lieutenant Osborne interjected calmly. When all eyes turned to him, he continued. "Starfleet Intelligence has found some evidence about a certain… cooperation between Orion trade convoys and the government of Mu Leonis II. This particular involvement seems to go back for some twelve standard years and serves mainly the distribution of _zienite_ ore. It's not entirely impossible, though, that the upper class of Ardana has shared their otherwise jealously guarded technology with the Orions."

"I can't believe that," Kirk shook his head. Why should they do so?"

"Well, Captain, your… actions three years ago have led to a coup d'état within Ardanan society," Lieutenant Osborne's tone was even and disciplined, but Uhura had the feeling that he'd wanted to say _interference_ instead of actions. "The Troglytes, as they are called, have become very… uncomfortable for the government. It wouldn't surprise me if the majority of Thimsel's new colonists turned out to be Troglytes."

"That would explain how such a small colony as Thimsel was able to raise a city-tower like Aeropolis." Montgomery Scott nodded. "They'd never have been able to produce the required technology – _or_ the workers – for such a project on their own. So, ye think that the Ardanans passed on their excess workers to Thimsel, an' that the Orions organized the transport?"

"Exactly, Mr. Scott," Lieutenant Osborne replied. "That would explain the unbelievable increase of the population as well as the unknown ships' configurations. It's generally known that Mu Leonis II isn't the world of origin of the Ardanan upper class – only that of the Troglytes – although Intelligence has never managed to get a glimpse of one of their ships. Since they assumedly never leave their world – and if they do, they use the regular Starfleet transport ships – we've assumed that they don't have any ships of their own left. Apparently, we've been mistaken. Even if those ships only exist as construction plans, how hard would it be for the Orions to reverse-engineer them?"

"You seem to know a great deal about what Starfleet Intelligence learns all the time," Kirk commented, a little suspiciously. "Do you work for Intelligence as well?"

"Sometimes, sir," Osborne replied, without a moment of hesitation. "Never during a regular mission, though. Nonetheless, I had a one-year-mission at the Orion border during the refitting of the _Enterprise_, so I'm relatively well-informed abut the goings-on in that particular area at the moment. Actually, my suspicion was raised by the fact that two years and a half ago a transport ship arrived at Thimsel, full of Orion women."

"What makes you thing that?" Decker asked in surprise. "Geeta was positive that those women weren't green savages."

Osborne flashed the young executive officer a forgiving smile.

"Not all Orion women are green-skinned, sir, only the members of a primitive tribe; one that originates from a small, isolated continent of their homeworld. They were discovered fairly late, at a time when the primary species of the planet has already reached a quite high technology level. They were just e little better developed than the Crô-Magnon-people of Earth. Regular Orions have a vaguely oriental look," Osborne gave Sulu a faint smile, "and seem barely different from humans… at least for the naked eye. The _genetic_ differences are, although small, quite significant."

"Do they trade vith the 'normal' vomen as vell?" Chekov asked, his accent thickening as always when under stress. Osborne nodded.

"And with children, yes. Orion _potentates_ often have an unhealthy appetite for pretty young boys. Of course, the green savage dancers are the most sought after. But if someone wants obedient wives for workers rather than luxury 'articles', normal Orion women would be the ideal choice. Unlike the green savages, they are genetically compatible with the most humanoid species, even though the hybrid offspring would be infertile."

"But they'll make strong and durable vorkers – for the one generation they exist," Chekov commented.

"It makes perfect sense," Sulu said grimly. "Governor Marouk, whoever he might be, has apparently decided to breed a brand new slave race for his private little empire. Ardanan workers are used to labour till they die from exhaustion, and Orion women are held as slaves all their lives anyway. Beyond that, coming from a high-gravity planet, they're strong and tough. And in order to keep anyone from getting the wrong ideas – from getting _any_ ideas at all – he came of with this network thing."

"Which solves the problem rather nicely," Tigh commented.

"What do you mean?" Uhura asked. Tigh turned his chair to her.

"You were the one to point out how underlying and… and hypnotic this broadcast is. Well, Denebians have different brains than humanoid species, with more sensitive telepathic centres, or so I was told. They've perceived a certain kind of vibration in the broadcast, and when they accessed the network, many of them fell into coma. A few unfortunate ones had even gone mad and destroyed themselves."

"But why didn't it have any effect on the Tellarites?" Lieutenant Rhada asked.

"Because their brain waves have a completely different frequency than either human or Denebian ones," Dr. Helen Noël, the neuropsychologist of the _Enterprise_, answered. "Tellarites have remarkable brains: they're immune against most kinds of hypnosis and they almost completely lack a telepathic centre. That makes them widely resistant against mental manipulations."

"Which is amazing if you consider how hysteric they usually are, and how easily they panic," Kirk, who found Tellarites extremely annoying, commented.

"That is no contradiction in itself," Xon said matter-of-factly. "However, it explains why this Governor Marouk wanted the Tellarites off Thimsel, by any means necessary. As they cannot be manipulated themselves, they could have revealed the fact of the manipulation to those who _were_ being manipulated."

"I'm getting a migraine," Kirk scowled, but McCoy shook his head.

"No, Jim, it's true. Manipulation can only succeed as long as the victim doesn't know that he's being manipulated. As soon as he becomes aware of his situation, he'll be able to put up at least _some_ resistance. Marouk couldn't afford the risk that the Tellarites might reveal his little power play to his victims."

"Have the Denebians been forced to leave Thimsel, too?" Decker asked. Tigh shook his head.

"No, they left voluntarily… after having tried to access the subspace radio several times – and failed. A few of them vanished under unclear circumstances; not even their bodies have ever been found. So the Elders decided to move the entire colony to K'rta 2 before schedule. The _Eyrenii_ and the _!hew_ were against a pre-schedule migration, as they knew they'd have no subspace connection on K'rta 2. But the two other species were in majority – and they were afraid."

"Afraid?" Uhura asked in surprise. "Of what? Have they been definitely threatened?"

"Not in the literary sense of the word," Tigh replied. "But they seemed fairly certain that all people on Thimsel are either completely mad or controlled by some outside force. And they believe _that_ to be a very dangerous thing. I happen to agree with them."

"So do I," Kirk gnawed on the tip of his thumb thoughtfully. "Lieutenant Osborne, could you possibly find something – _anything!_ – about this Governor Marouk in our databases?"

"Unfortunately, not much, sir," Lieutenant Osborne, who had the well-founded reputation of never being caught in surprise by any unexpected question from his commanding officers, replied promptly. "According to our records, the legally selected governor of Thimsel should be a Centaurian by the name of Govan Ra'khal, who's got this assignment from the Federation Commission for Agrarian Affairs, as he's considered an excellent agrarian expert. Of Governor Marouk we only know that he's a member of the _Free Merchants' Guild_ and that he came from the Rigel VI colony to Thimsel."

"The _Free Merchant's Guild_, hm?" McCoy shook his head in disgust. "The man could barely be better than a pirate, then."

"Or something a lot worse," Lieutenant Osborne, as a man who knew a lot about the situation at the Orion border, replied grimly. "The _Free Merchant's Guild_ has been doing business with the Orion Syndicate for years; unfortunately, we haven't been able to find any hard proof for that. The business _seems_ to be legal, on the surface: they trade in exotic spices, Orion spider silk, aphrodisiacs, perfumes and other luxury articles."

"In other words, they're all pirates and slavers," Kirk interrupted him impatiently. "We've all heard of the _Free Merchants_, Lieutenant. Haven't you found any _personal_ information about the man?"

"On the contrary, Captain," Osborne was almost as deceitful to throw off-kilt as a Vulcan; perhaps living with Rigelian women in a clan marriage – _if_ he got to spend some time at home, that is – had rubbed off on him, "but they don't reveal much. Marouk alFaisal ibn Haziz was born sixty-four standard years ago on the Islamic colony Medina. His grandparents were founding members of that extremely stern, orthodox colony. His grandfather was a teacher in the local Koran school; his father created a small merchant fleet with only four ships. Marouk served in his father's fleet as a young man; however, he moved to Rigel VI at the age of twenty-six already and joined the _Free Merchant's Guild_ only a year later. He'd gained an impressive amount of wealth and owned six massive cargo transport ships when he moved to Thimsel. In his entire time on Rigel VI, he never clashed with the law. In fact, he was highly respected in Terminal, the space harbour of that colony, where his private company owned dozens of storage facilities to rent. In fact, he still owns those, and so keeps up his influence within the merchants there."

"Which doesn't necessarily mean that he's doing honest business, though," Tigh commented. Lieutenant Osborne nodded.

"That's basically correct, sir. I have the impression that he wasn't satisfied with the amount of influence and control he used to have on Rigel VI, however, and so decided to take over an entire planet as his own. Which, in turn, could be a good starting point for the _Free Merchant's Guild_ to build farther out its area of influence, here, outside the immediate control of Federation authorities."

"It seems to me that working for Intelligence has made you a little paranoid, Lieutenant," Kirk said sarcastically.

Osborne shrugged. "We'll see, sir."

"The most important question in the moment is, how are we supposed to approach Governor Marouk," T'Pel spoke for the first time. "A Starfleet investigation is likely the last thing he would wish for. We cannot expect any cooperation."

"Ve've to vork undercover," Chekov said, his eyes gleaming with almost manic intensity. "It should be possible to find crevmembers vith matching looks to infiltrate the city."

"In any ordinary city, it would be certainly possible," Xon replied thoughtfully. "Not in Aeropolis, however. This sky-scraper is nothing but one huge surveillance system. No strangers can get in undetected."

"Have you got a better idea?" Kirk snapped. The Vulcan nodded, completely unfazed by the captain's temper tantrum.

"Indeed I have, sir. I suggest that we send down a landing party, openly and officially, as that is what Governor Marouk would expect us to do. By doing what he expects, we would not raise any suspicions. However, we should not reveal the fact that we have already established contact with the Denebian and Tellarite colonies, respectively. And Yeoman Zara Jamal should go with the landing party."

"Why on Earth that?" Kirk asked.

"Because, as far as I am informed, she, too, hails from the Medina colony."

"And?" Kirk clearly didn't understand the connection. Neither did most of the others, by the looks of them.

"Even renegade Muslims are more inclined to trust a brother or a sister of their own faith than any other being in the universe," Mohammed Jahma replied in the Vulcan's stead. "And for the same reason, I request permission to join the landing party myself, Captain."

"Granted," Kirk shrugged; then he looked at Decker. "Put together a landing party, Number One, and report to the transporter room in 30 minutes before we establish standard orbit. Dismissed."

* * *

Will Decker chose six persons for the landing party: himself, Zara Jamal and Mohammed Jahma for security, Xon for scientific matters, Ilia, and Dr. Helen Noël. Such a small landing party had the undeniable advantage that it could be beamed out in one move, should the situation turn life-threatening. Besides, the people he'd chosen were either experienced with possibly dangerous planetside situations, or capable of multitasking, so he didn't need more people – for a first visit anyway.

The neuropsychologist was supposed to make a first estimate about the overall mental disposition of Aeropolis' inhabitants. Aside from her expertise in her own field, she was also known as an adventurous spirit who didn't panic easily and could handle her phaser well, sot hey didn't need one of the security guards covering her back all the time. Decker hoped that Xon will be able to gather information by observing about the technology used in Aeropolis and make an educated guess about the origins of said technology. He also wanted the Vulcan to look out for any possible weaknesses in the city-tower's defences, just in case. And he wanted Ilia to do some discreet poking around in people's heads. Unlike the Vulcans, Deltans were remarkably unscrupulous when it came to using their outstanding mental abilities – and they did it so subtly that most people couldn't even detect their delicate probing.

Considering that they were about to beam down to a fairly warm planet, no one had opted for the new field jackets. That meant a limited amount of equipment, as the regular uniforms – unlike the new working coveralls – still didn't have any pockets. Sometimes Decker really wondered if the people who had designed their uniforms had the slightest idea what working in deep space meant.

"I'd like to go down better equipped," he said in concern. "Who knows what we'll have to face in Aeropolis. A small Type I phaser isn't much of a weapon."

"But it can be hidden within your belt, sir," Mohammed Jahma pointed out. He and Yeoman Jamal, being security, could wear the heavier Type II phasers openly and had thus more firepower. "Besides, our belt buckles have a built-in transponder. Hit them, and you'll set off the alarm for an emergency beam-out."

"Somehow I don't believe that beaming out would be an opinion, should I really need it," Decker replied glumly. "Have you found any shielded areas, Mr. Kyle?"

The transporter chief scratched his short goatee thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure, sir," he answered. "They don't show up on my scans as such, but if they're shielded well enough, they can still be there somewhere. The building materials interfere with our scanners; and some of the technology seems to be pretty… unorthodox down there. Some of them I've never seen before."

And _that_ said a lot. Kyle had been in service for twenty-some years and had worked with and for Montgomery Scott for the last seven of those years. There was nothing in standard Federation technology he wouldn't at least know of.

Which could only mean that the technology the people of Aeropolis had used to build their city had to be of different origins. At least partially. Well, the supposed cooperation with Ardana could explain _that_… which made Decker worry even more. As an engineer himself – and a good one, despite his youth – he knew all too well what havoc unknown technology could play with their equipment. And if that technology had come from Ardana, it would be pretty advanced. Those people lived in a city that was literally floating in the skies, after all!

"Could you beam us down near Aeropolis, so that we can at least take a look before facing the inhabitants?" he asked Kyle. The transporter chief shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Commander, but there are literally no landmasses anywhere near Aeropolis. It stands in the middle of a flat ocean. I'll have to beam you directly into the city, unless you want to use an aqua-shuttle."

Decker shrugged. "Do it, then. It might not be the most polite way to arrive in a foreign city, but it's their own damn fault. They should have answered our hails."

"Any specific coordinates I should send you?" Kyle asked. Decker handed him a data chip.

"Upmost level. There should be a large room, the antechamber of the governor's office," he then turned to the rest of the landing party. "Move in position. We're going in."

The others took in the required position on the transporter platforms. Decker looked at the transporter chief.

"Energizing, Mr. Kyle," he ordered.

Kyle pushed the handle upwards and watched them turning into glittering columns of energy and then vanishing from the platforms.

"Keep an eye on their pattern, Janice" he instructed his aide. "If those guys down there happened to raise some sort of weird transporter repelling field, I want the process reserved before it's too late."

"You're grossly paranoid, Chief," Janice Rand commented, but she didn't turn her eyes away from the readings for a nanosecond.

"Better than getting our people back in the form of indefinable biomass," Kyle replied.

As a section leader, he'd been informed about the things the two landing parties had found out, and he thought that _some_ paranoia was well-founded in this particular case.

"Well, you can relax," Rand grinned at him. "Readings show they've safely rematerialized – wherever they might be. Commander Decker has just sent the confirmation signal."

Kyle was not so easily reassured, though.

"Switch the transponder signals to automated surveillance," he instructed. "As soon as the computer detects the slightest fluctuation in their biosignals, we must be ready to beam out the whole landing party at once."

Rand shook her head.

"That might prove more complicated as you think, Chief. That entire tower down there consists of Duraglass, transparent aluminium and a sort of ferroconcrete I've never seen before. Should our people go somewhere very deep inside the complex, we might not be able to even locate them."

"I know," Kyle replied morosely, "but that's one more reason to keep an eye on them all the time, isn't it?"

Rand had no argument against that, so she began to program the automated surveillance into the computer of the main transporter room.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13 Aeropolis Two

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

I got the idea for the "payday" niches from Tutankhamon's grave. Guarding his sarcophagus at all four corners were golden statues of goddesses, protecting the coffin with peculiarly spread arms. The gesture made the statues themselves look absolutely vulnerable, and that was the look I was going for when thinking about how "payday" might have been delivered.

Re: the banners that should have been in Marouk's antechamber. The colours are from "The Star Fleet Technical Manual" by Franz Joseph. Apparently, the Federation emblem was red in the 23rd century, with silver stars and the elongated letters UFP in the middle.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 13 – AEROPOLIS – TWO**

The landing party materialized in the foyer of Governor Marouk's office – coordinates courtesy of the amazingly thorough Tellarites who had recorded just about every oh-so-tiny detail they'd managed to lay hand – or one should probably have said _hoof_ – on. Both Geeta and the Denebians had assured that this was the only place (situated on the upmost level of the city-tower) with direct access to the roof where the atmospheric gliders were parked. That made perfect sense. People would have no chance to escape through the governor's own office, even if they wanted. Of which Decker wasn't sure, after what they'd heard during debrief.

In any case, the atmospheric gliders were the only means to leave Aeropolis, it seemed, aside from transporter technology; but the colonists of Thimsel didn't use transporters. At least they hadn't had any two years earlier when the Tellarites had left the planet. Or, to be more accurate, the Tellarites hadn't seen any at work. Which still didn't mean there really weren't any. Decker chose to be very careful with his guesses.

The foyer was a spectacular room. One of its entire walls was a huge window, made of unbreakable transparent aluminium, polarized to filter the harsh sunlight to a pleasant level of warmth. In front of this window a semi-circle of low benches stood, made of some local stone, left intentionally rough and unpolished, but padded with flat, gold-patterned leather pillows. The benches half-encircled a small artificial pond, complete with fountain and the local equivalent of goldfish: palm-sized, iridescent creatures that glittered in the water like jewels. The water of the fountain not only kept the pale sea-roses – or whatever water plants they might be – sufficiently sprayed, it also produces a soothing sound.

"Artificial plants," Xon declared after a fleeting glance, without the need of consulting his tricorder. "And the fish are holograms. I must admit, I cannot see the point."

Decker shrugged. "Laziness. They're pretty, and once the whole thing has been set up, they don't require any further care."

"But they are not real," Xon said, obviously not getting the point. "They are illusions… or even less than that."

"Human being can be completely happy living in illusions," Decker assured him with a wry grin. "I know it must seem illogical for you, Lieutenant, but it's not always a bad thing. Now, let's try figure out what's going on here, shall we?"

Xon shook his head in mild exasperation but followed his team deeper further into the foyer. Humans were exceedingly strange, illogical beings indeed. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take for him to start understanding them… if ever.

According to the rules, the silver-and-red banner of the Federation, the silver-and-blue banner of the United Nations of Earth, the yellow-orange-copper-and-brass banner of the Cygnus System and the purple-and-gold banner of the Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets should have been displayed in the foyer, as these were the nations the original colonists had belonged to. (Denebians never displayed their banner on foreign planets.) None of those could be seen here, though. Instead, long and narrow cobalt banners were hanging from everywhere, with ornamental letters in gold, which Zara Jamal recognized as quotes from the Koran.

At the farthest end of the foyer a smoky, transparent glass wall divided the secretary's office: a middle-sized room that looked like a well-equipped information centre, with a startling number of surveillance monitors. Behind the completely computerized desk a young, blonde woman was sitting in a rotating armchair, watching one of the monitors with such a single-minded concentration that she didn't even noticed the arrival of the strangers. Behind the desk, there was a strange depression in the wall: man-sized and man-shaped, as if made for a person to stand in it, with both their arms half raised to the sides. There were similar niches along the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling window. They uncomfortably reminded Decker of ghost stories about people being walled in alive.

As the automatic door hissed open, the secretary glanced up from her monitor. She was fairly young indeed, perhaps twenty-six or so, pretty and well-clad, in the fashion that had been popular on Earth just a couple of years earlier, her face pale and oval-shaped. But not even her smooth, even features could conceal the haunted look in her blue eyes, although otherwise her face seemed strangely… empty.

"The governor doesn't accept any visitors," she said automatically, like a well-programmed computer, without actually looking at the newcomers.

To the utter surprise of the landing party, Decker's jaw fell literally.

"_Danielle?_" he asked, completely thunderstruck. "What are you doing here? Since when have you been here?"

The young woman looked at him with those strange, haunted eyes. There was barely any recognition in her glance.

"Will? Is that truly you? Have you come with the ship in orbit?" She would have a soft, pleasant voice, had it not completely lacked any emotions. There was no true interest in her questions – it could have been voiced by a computer… and not a terribly advanced one.

"Of course I have," it was hard for Decker to pull himself together; the last person he'd expected to find in Aeropolis would have been his fiancée. His _ex_-fiancée, apparently. His ex-fiancée who barely recognized him, by the look of things. "I'm First Officer of the _Enterprise_ now. Just promoted to Lieutenant Commander before the launch of her new five-year-mission."

He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was babbling like an idiot, and the sharp look Mohammed Jahma gave him warned him that he was giving away information, but this unexpected reunion had thrown him off-kilt a little. He'd all but given up on seeing Danielle ever again – and seeing her like this was ringing alarm bells in his head.

"The _Enterprise_?" Danielle echoed with the same flat indifference. "Kirk's ship, then. The governor didn't expect such… illustrious visitors."

"Does that mean you've received our transmissions?" Decker asked sharply. The young woman shrugged.

"Of course. We're not stupid, you know. We're capable of using our own comm system."

"Why haven't you answered our hails, then?" Decker asked in exasperation.

"We're not interested in contacts with other worlds," Danielle replied indifferently. "We prefer to mind our own business and to be left alone. Besides, your timing couldn't possibly be worse. Payday's coming up; and we've been waiting for it long enough."

That was a very peculiar statement, but before any of the visitors could have said anything, a long, melodic signal sounded from the hidden loudspeakers, resounding via the comm systems through the entire monstrous, five-hundred-floor building.

"Finally!" Danielle sighed in obvious relief, very much in the manner of a starving woman in at the sight of a seven-course-banquet laid out in front of her.

She rose from her chair and stepped back, directly into the niche behind her desk. In the moment her palms touched the wall, thin, elastic cables shot forth from hidden access ports and attached themselves to her temples. Automated shackles snapped free, fastening her wrists and ankles to the wall, immobilizing her efficiently. She didn't seem to mind, though. Her eyes closed on their own, her entire body went slack, and every last bit of expression vanished from her blank face.

"Doc," Decker said, frightened, "what's happening with her?"

Dr, Noël hurried to her side, pulled up her eyelids and examined her pupils. They were so dilated that only a thin ring of blue could be seen from her irises. She seemed completely unaware of he examination, or, indeed, of the doctor's very presence.

"I don't think we'll be able to learn anything else from her, at least not at the moment," the neuropsychologist judged. "She's very obviously an addict in an advanced phase of her addiction, whatever specific kind that might be. Do you know her, Mr. Decker?"

"Her name is Danielle DuMolin; we used to be betrothed," Decker shook his head in shocked disbelief. "Well, technically, we still _are_; our engagement has never been officially annulled. What's wrong with her, doctor? She seems just this side from being brain dead. She used to be such a warm, intelligent young woman!"

"I don't doubt it, Commander," the neuropsychologist replied sorrowfully. "Her current state is caused by her addiction. And I'm afraid if we don't refer her to a psychiatric institute as soon as possible, it would be too late for her."

"It _is_ already too late," a deep, somewhat dry voice said behind them. "I regret to say that her state is irreparable. And unfortunately, that is true for most other people on this planet."

Mohammed Jahma whirled around like a startled cobra, ready to strike, phaser already in hand. Zara Jamal followed suit barely a heartbeat later. The newcomer, whose arrival none of them had heard, was a tall, wiry, bald-headed elderly man, whose gaunt face spoke of Egyptian ancestors. He was wearing a long, black robe with a high collar that looked like a funnel, emphasizing the suggestive, almost threatening air of his appearance. His thin moustache and short-trimmed, pointed goatee was not greying yet. Zara Jamal made an ancient warding gesture with her free hand and murmured something in her mother tongue.

That must have surprised the newcomer because his formerly theatrical glide became a lot more subdued at once.

"I didn't know that other people have managed to escape the narrow-minded holiness of Medina as well," he said in a fairly natural manner. "How did you get this far, daughter?"

"As a stowaway aboard a freighter," Zara Jamal replied, performing the ceremonial bow that young people owed their elders. "Governor Marouk, I presume?"

"I'm called that, yes," the Mephisto-like apparition nodded with dignity, obviously pleased with her. "Although I'm merely responsible for the delegation and evaluation of work here."

"And who is responsible for Danielle's state of mind?" Decker asked accusingly. "How did she end up here, and why hasn't she returned to Earth as planned?"

"Ah," Marouk said with a benevolent smile, "you must be Will Decker, then. I have heard about you. A great deal, in fact. Danielle's father used to be an old business associate of mine, back on Rigel VI. She originally came to Thimsel to visit me and my family."

"So you're the one who's hindered her in returning to me?" Decker asked through clenched teeth. Mohammed Jahma shot him another sharp look, but Marouk didn't seem to take any offence.

"Nonsense, Commander," he replied calmly. "The truth is, Danielle settled down on Thimsel so quickly, she liked it here so much, that she simply didn't want to leave the planet anymore."

"That still doesn't explain why she hasn't sent as much as a lifesign, all the time," Decker said sullenly. "We were supposed to get _married_, for God's sake!"

Marouk shrugged diplomatically and spread his hands.

"The people of Thimsel aren't interested in contacts with other worlds," _that_ sounded like a mantra, drilled into anyone thoroughly. "I was fairly surprised by this reluctance myself, when I moved here a few years ago. But newcomers adjust to this attitude in an amazingly short time, as a rule."

Xon glanced at Ilia. The Deltan shook her sleek, bald head with a tiny, barely visible gesture, signalling that the human was lying.

"Well, it is a known fact that social pressure from tightly organized societies can prove quite… overwhelming, especially for Terrans," the young Vulcan said in a calm, neutral tone. Your predecessor, Dr. Ra'khal must have had a rather… unique vision about social order."

For a moment, Marouk was honestly surprised, but he was eager to agree.

"That's correct, Mr…" he trailed out.

"My name is Xon," the Vulcan told him.

"My pleasure, Mr. Xon," Marouk inclined his head. "You seem to have a good grasp on our situation. Governor Ra'khal's ultimate goal was to build a disciplined, efficiently working colony. In order to reach that goal, he used… extraordinary methods, with long-lasting results, the effects of which can, unfortunately, no longer be repaired."

"Was this the reason why Thimsel has not sent any official reports to the Federation authorities and also otherwise refrained from every contact with the rest of the Federation?" Xon asked in the same measured tone. "This has caused a certain degree of concern in Starfleet Headquarters as well as by the respective governments that had sent colonists to this planet. Nether have you fulfilled your acknowledged obligations towards the Federation, which fact has caused even more concern. This is not an independent world, Governor; this is a Terran colony. You cannot simply quit your contracts one-sidedly; and it would be naïve to think that – given enough time – the Federation would simply forget about you."

"We never believed that," Marouk replied in a benevolent manner, without as much as a blink of an eye, "but we were having… difficulties with the reorganizing of our mining industry. With so many people becoming unfit to do regular work, we had to switch to automated mining – and that took up a lot of time and resources."

"Yet it has not hindered you in rising this city-tower," Xon replied calmly. Marouk waved his hand elegantly.

"Oh, that was only possible due to the generous help of Ardana. You now, after the catastrophic failure of the agrarian projects of my predecessor, we needed new homes for our colonists. The government of Mu Leonis II, generously enough, not only provided us with the necessary technology, but also with the workers."

"Ardana seems to lead a surprisingly extroverted life lately," the young Vulcan commented innocently. "In any case, that explains how the population of Thimsel could have experienced such an enormous increase of numbers. I assume the Troglytes have come voluntarily."

"Of course," Marouk assured him. "In fact, they are deadly afraid of being sent back home. They've never had such a good life as here."

Knowing the inhuman circumstances under which the Troglytes had to labour in the _zienite_ mines of Ardana, Xon actually didn't doubt _that_. He told so, according the truth. His declaration seemed to have put Marouk's suspicion at ease, at least for the time being (people tended to take everything a Vulcan said for face value), and the governor even gave the Starfleet officers permission to visit the great industrial plants and see with their won eyes how the ore processing was making headway. As soon as the reorganization was completed, he said, Thimsel would be, once again, capable of fulfilling its obligations towards the Federation.

At the same time, he invited them to be his guests in Aeropolis for the time of their visit on Thimsel. This was an excellent chance – one they hadn't hoped for, to be honest – so Decker called the _Enterprise_ and got Kirk's blessing. Seemingly delighted about this, Marouk ordered hostesses to the guest rooms of his residence to prepare everything for the unexpected visitors.

"Would you honour me with having dinner in my home tonight?" he then asked the guests politely. "We can discuss matters in more detail afterwards."

"We are the ones who would be honoured," Xon replied, instead of the still concerned and very tense Decker.

"Forgive us, Governor," Zara Jamal bowed respectfully, "but Yeoman Jahma and I are practicing Muslims; we're not allowed to participate in feasts during the Ramadan."

"My family has kept the Faith in this far-away colony just as we have at home," Marouk replied with an elegant bow of his own, "and thus we keep the Ramadan as well. Worry not, for this dinner is going to be a humble meal, served after sunset."

"In that case we, too, accept the invitation gratefully," Mohammed Jahma inclined his head.

* * *

The hostesses, sent by Governor Marouk to prepare the guest quarters, were small, Oriental-looking women, with sleek, snake-like limber bodies, and their triangular faces oddly reminded of the heads of cobras, due to their almond eyes, slanted pupils, broad cheekbones and somewhat abruptly tapering chins. They had short, thick, jet-black hair that formed a shiny helmet, low, smoky voices and very small, almost lipless mouths. They _looked_ like humans, but at second sight it became very obvious that they were not.

Decker remembered what Lieutenant Osborne had told them about regular Orion women and had no doubts that these must have come with the freighters Geeta had mentioned – as cargo, most likely. The main race of Orions might not have rudimentary scales like the male specimens of the green savages, but they couldn't have denied their reptilian origins, either, even though their evolution had taken a different turn somewhere along the way.

In any case, the hostesses had done an excellent job with the guest quarters. Not even a five-star hotel room on Earth – or on any holiday planet – could have been better than these. The luxury displayed here surprised some members of the landing party; the ones unfamiliar with Islamic customs.

"Hospitality is one of the pillars of our culture," Zara Jamal explained. "It demands from the host to offer his best, no matter the costs."

"It doesn't' hurt to be a bit suspicious, though," Mohammed Jahma said, handing her a scanner nicknamed 'bug detector' among security people. "Take a look at the ladies' quarters, I'll check out the rest."

A few minutes later both reported not having found any listening devices in any of the guest quarters.

"Unless they're integrated in the walls by design, which I doubt, since ferroconcrete would interfere with them, the rooms are clean," Mohammed Jahma declared. "Still, I suggest that during tactical discussions we use this."

_This_ was a ring with a large red stone. Mohammed Jahma pressed his thumb against the stone shortly, and its colour turned green.

"It's activated now," he said.

"What _is_ this?" Dr. Noël examined the unusual piece of jewellery with interest. She had a thing for useful little gadgets that were far more than they looked.

"Precaution," Mohammed Jahma replied. "The 'stone' is actually a miniature generator that emanates a scattering field… very useful when we're unsure about listening devices."

"It's not part of the standard security equipment, though," Zara Jamal added unnecessarily. "Where did you get it from, Moh?"

"Lieutenant Osborne lent it to me," her fellow security officer replied. "He has it from his time with Intelligence, I guess. I never asked. But it comes handy now. I'd suggest that Lieutenant Ilia wear it; Deltans are known to like exotic jewellery, and are even allowed to wear those when in uniform."

Ilia accepted without a word, and they all watched in amazement as the golden ring, formerly wide enough for the big fingers of the security officer, gradually adjusted its size to her much finer bones.

"Clever," Dr. Noël said, impressed. "Brand new technology, right?"

"And most likely classified," Decker added. "All right, people, now that we can speak freely, what are your first impressions?"

"I assume we have played our role convincingly, so far," in typical Vulcan efficiency, Xon felt that it was his duty to summarize their experiences. "As long as Governor Marouk believes that he can mislead us, we have the opportunity to see through his schemes. However, you must be very careful, Commander. It's my opinion that the governor thinks of you as a risk, because of your former relationship with Ms DuMolin. There is a chance of seventy-eight per cent that he might try to eliminate that risk by orchestrating a… an 'unfortunate accident' for you, and a seventy point two per cent chance that he will succeed."

"We can protect you from a straightforward attack," Mohammed Jahma added, "or so I hope anyway, since both Lieutenant Ilia and Dr. Noël are crack shots, and Vulcans are notoriously good at hand-to-hand combat. But as Lieutenant Xon has said, orchestrating an 'accident' wouldn't be too hard in such a thoroughly controlled environment. Please, be very careful and go nowhere alone."

"Do you really think he'd try to get me killed?" Decker couldn't completely believe it. But the Nigerian was deadly serious.

"If he believes that your presence could threaten his position here, or loosen his grip on the people, yes, he would," he said. "I have the feeling that here's a lot at stake for him. I just can't be sure what."

"Perhaps Lieutenant Ilia can be of assistance," the Vulcan turned to the Deltan. "Lieutenant, have your empathic senses received anything from Governor Marouk?"

"Not much," Ilia replied thoughtfully. "I had to be very subtle, as a trained mind can easily detect telepathic probing, and he seems to have had excellent training. But one thing is certain: he doesn't trust Mr. Decker. For the moment, however, he's planning to make us believe that the production fallout was the result of the local… difficulties with industrial reorganization and blame it all on his predecessor. He's trying to win our trust; if he can get us to send back a positive report to Federation authorities, he'll be able to apply for the status of an independent colony during the next session of the Federation Council. By then, the required years of existence would be reached."

"Clever," Dr. Noël nodded, impressed against her will. "With the current population and industrial level Thimsel would indeed have the potential to achieve independent status. With a positive report from the _Enterprise_, Governor Marouk could become the legal ruler of this world."

"Does he really believe to get away with such a deceit?" Mohammed Jahma shook his head incredulously.

"Actually, I would say his chances are quite good," the Vulcan replied dryly, directing their attention at the standard information screen embedded in the wall. "Have you known who the Federation Undersecretary for Agrarian Affairs is in this sector?"

The others gathered in front of the screen, but the face – and the name that belonged to it – only said Dr. Noël something.

"Nilz Baris!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Isn't he that idiot of a bureaucrat who wanted to ferry _quadrotriticale_ to Sherman's Planet, without realizing that his own aide, a surgically altered Klingon, had poisoned the seed?"

Decker, who'd heard about it for the first time, raised his head in interest. "Really? What's happened to the Klingon?"

"He got his trial, was sentenced to lifelong imprisonment and sent to the penal colony Limbo, on the planet Magna," Dr. Noël replied. "Undersecretary Baris was accused of dereliction of his duties and reassigned to Minerva, the administrative centre of this sector."

"Is this Mr. Baris still on Minerva?" Ilia asked, starting to see the hidden connections.

"Apparently not," Xon replied, after having downloaded the necessary information. "He seems to have moved to Thimsel, two and a half years ago. He is represented on Minerva by the commanding officer of the planetary Starbase located on Minerva, Commodore José Mendez."

For a while, they were all digesting the news.

"The captain must be informed about this," Dr. Noël said finally. "He and Mr. Baris parted, well, less than amiably – if Governor Marouk and Baris are doing business together, this is perhaps even bigger than we've thought."

"I agree," Xon nodded, "however, there is a chance of ninety-eight point six two per cent that our communication would be recorded – or even jammed."

"We mustn't raise any suspicions," Zara Jamal emphasized. "I suggest that we report in personally."

"And how do you intend to do that?" Decker asked.

"When we've left the governor's quarters after dinner, I'll initiate an emergency beam-out, using my transponder," Zara explained. "If we're lucky, I can beam out and back in without being noticed."

"They will definitely notice any transporter activity," Xon shook his head. "You cannot return, Yeoman. We can consider ourselves lucky if you get out in the first place."

"And if someone asks for me?" she riposted.

"We shall tell them that you have suddenly gotten ill," the Vulcan suggested, "and that an emergency transfer had to be asked for. Of course, it would be helpful if you were able to simulate a few symptoms."

"Well, with a little help…" Zara Jamal turned to Dr. Noël. "Doc, could you shot me with something that would cause me a few hours of dyspnoea?"

"Sure," Dr. Noël shrugged. "But how is that supposed to help you get out?"

"There's a very peculiar kind of asthma known only among the inhabitants of Medina," Zara Jamal explained. "A relatively high percentage of the people – strangely enough, mostly women – have a strong allergic reaction to the high concentration of fern spores that's gathered by the seasonal winds, twice a local year. Since Governor Marouk comes from Medina, he'll recognize my 'illness' at once."

"Is that not dangerous?" Mohammed Jahma asked, clearly not liking the idea.

Zara Jamal patted his back like that of a big, friendly dog. She liked him, but his over-protectiveness was trying sometimes.

"You worry too much, Moh. I've used that trick before, and it always worked like a charm."

"I still don't like it," Mohammed replied stubbornly. "You can set off a true attack – who knows how much you're inclined to have the illness already?"

"I don't," Zara rolled her eyes. "I'd been thoroughly checked before I got accepted by Starfleet. Don't fret, it's perfectly safe. You don't have to be so protective about me, just because I'm short and a woman. We don't live in the twentieth century anymore."

"The yeoman is correct," Xon said. "It is an acceptable risk. And we need to inform the captain."

Dr. Noël looked at Decker. "It's your decision, sir… and, ultimately, your responsibility."

"Can you do it?" Decker asked.

"Of course," she answered with a shrug. "The _how_ is not the problem. The health risk is."

"How high is the risk?" Decker asked.

"Barely existent," Dr. Noël replied, "but we can never tell with one hundred per cent certainty. Medicine is a less exact science than, say, mathematics."

"I'm aware of that, sir," Zara Jamal argued quietly. "And I volunteer. Dr. McCoy would know what to do. We need to do this."

"Perhaps," Decker admitted glumly. "I still don't like it, Yeoman."

"Neither do I, sir; as while it might not be dangerous, it's definitely unpleasant. But we really don't have that many choices," the yeoman pointed out. "Besides, look at it from this angle: at least I'll be out of harm's way aboard the _Enterprise_."

"_If_ you live long enough to get there in the first place," Decker sighed; then he gave in. "Very well, doctor; let's give it a try."

Dr. Noël sorted through her medkit, choosing the ingredients for a proper cocktail very carefully. This went against her interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath, but even she had to admit that the yeoman's trick was probably the only way to alert the _Enterprise_ about the suspected nature of Marouk's machinations. Still, she didn't have to _like_ it, did she?

She loaded the hypospray with the finished cocktail and pressed the small injector against Zara's neck. The instrument hissed like a snake while it emptied the not-quite-harmless substances into the yeoman's system. Zara Jamal hold still during the short process and showed no reaction to the medicine so far.

"Done," Dr. Noël said, clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing.

"How long until the cocktail causes the first symptoms?" Zara asked. The pretty doctor sighed.

"Four hours… perhaps a little longer."

"Good," Zara said. "There's still almost as long until the local sunset. I'll have a spectacular show in the middle of Governor Marouk's dinner."

"I wonder, though, who will be truly entertained," Mohammed Jahma murmured.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14 Prodigal Daughters

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

Jasmine alFaisal is a character from Margaret Wander Bonanno's novel "Pawns and Symbols". She's a high-ranking Federation diplomat.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 14 – PRODIGAL DAUGHTERS**

Shortly after sunset, their hostesses reappeared to lead them to the governor's quarters, and now Ilia, who had been selected as a member of the landing party to observe things above all else, got the chance to gave them a more thorough look. She didn't need long to decide that Lieutenant Osborne must have been right – these women were definitely Orions.

Of course, Ilia had the advantage of having met Orions before, unlike most of her colleagues, so she wouldn't make the mistake to think they were Terran women of Asian origins. True, they were small, but not smaller than she was, and they did indeed have a vaguely oriental look, caused mostly by the slant of their eyes, but they were a lot more compact than any Asian woman could have been – which was understandable. Small and compact were the usual characteristics of species that had developed on worlds with higher gravity than the Earth norm – Vulcans being the only exception, but again, Vulcans were different in almost everything.

The hostesses wore long, shiny, skin-tight dresses that were open on one side up to the hip, so that they could move more freely. Their gait was slow and almost a bit floating nonetheless, revealing that they were used to higher gravity indeed, and Ilia, who – like all Deltans – was sensitive to the pheromones of other species, had no doubt that sexual services were part of their duties as well… perhaps an important part, judged by their high pheromone levels. Their pretty heads were stretched forward on the swan-like necks like those of cobras, their triangular faces were strangely empty, lacking not only the characteristic, savage wildness of the green "animal" dancers but any other expression, too. Their long, golden fingernails revealed that they'd never done a moment of physical labour, and they were so well-groomed and elegant as only those could be who were meant to move in the most exclusive circles.

Nonetheless, the molecular-sealed thin golden bracelets around their ankles told everyone who knew how to read signs that they were slaves. Highly prized and expensive slaves, most likely, but still slaves. The molecular-sealed golden chain connecting their ankle bracelets was half a metre long at best – it _looked_ like jewellery, but it had been designed to hinder them in running away. Their voices were low and subdued, their amber eyes, with the slanted pupils so characteristic for their species, starr and empty – snake eyes. They spoke a passable, albeit heavily accented Standard but weren't particularly talkative. Either they had nothing to say, or, what was more likely, they were thoroughly intimidated by their masters.

They led the landing party to Marouk's living room that was very different from both Danielle's office and the expensive guest quarters. It was an octagonal chamber, paved with multicoloured marble; the walls painted blue and decorated with beautiful golden calligraphy, just like the banners in the foyer.

"The same quotes, too, I presume," Ilia commented softly, and Zara Jamal nodded in agreement.

"Quotes from the Koran. This is a very traditional household, by the look of it – and a very rich one, I'd say."

In the middle of the room a long, low table stood, already laid for dinner. It _had_ to be low, as there were no chairs around it, just flat pillows, cased in gilded leather. Marouk was sitting at the head of the table, of course, with his three wives on the left – on the heart-side, that was traditionally the place of the woman on Medina. All three wives wore long burnouses and gold-embroidered, cylindrical hats, half-covered by the hoods of their burnouses; and blue sleeveless mantles.

The oldest of them must have been of Marouk's age – a dark-skinned Haratin woman, whose ancestors must have migrated from Africa. The other two were much younger, perhaps in their early thirties, olive-skinned and well-rounded, perhaps of Berber origins. All three wore thin silver bracelets on their wrists. Zara Jamal was actually surprised that they'd been allowed to welcome their husband's guests only half-veiled – apparently, Marouk's household was somewhat less traditional than she'd have thought.

On Marouk's right, a place that would belong to his heir, a young, fair-skinned Egyptian woman sat; she could barely be older than twenty or twenty-two. She was veiled in black, so that only her oval face and her wide, darkly burning eyes could be seen. She wore the traditional, cylindrical headdress of the _Ait Hadidou_ women, adorned with colourful silk braiding and small, ancient golden coins, but her beautiful face, her burning eyes mirrored so much passion and strong, unbending willpower that Ilia was certain: this young woman had never been connected to the mind-numbing computer network of Aeropolis. The Deltan had her doubts concerning the indifferent, simple-faced wives, but the girl was definitely her own mistress.

Marouk rose politely to greet his guests.

"Welcome in my humble home," he said. "Consider it as your own. May I do the introductions? My wives, Fatima, Ayshel and Dathma. And the pride and joy of my life: my daughter, Jasmine."

So, _that_ was what gave the young woman her privileged status! It seemed that Marouk had no male heir, nor any other children, which must have been quite the disappointment for a man of his position. But the truth was that a man could only beget children, not _make_ them, Zara Jamal thought, for Allah alone had the power to create life. And since Marouk had been unable to get more children out of three wives – or probably four, as none of the three present looked as if she would be Jasmine's mother – then perhaps there was something wrong with _him_. Of course, the local laws of Medina forbade any genetic treatment, be it by man or by woman, and perhaps Marouk, like many traditionalists, preferred to blame his wives for his childless state, instead of even considering that the fault might lie by him. Zara used to have an uncle like that.

The introductions being done, they all got seated around the table, and then dinner was served – not by the Orion slaves, they had no entry here, but by old, reliable servants of the family. According to Marouk's promise, the meal respected the rules of _sawm_ and consisted of porridge, couscous, dates and tea. Their host also explained that the food was _not_ produced by food synthesizers, although the general population of Aeropolis preferred these machines, but grown in one of the domed agro-stations.

Danielle DuMolin didn't appear. That annoyed Decker a bit (though didn't really surprise him) but when he asked about her absence, Marouk smoothly replied that Ms DuMolin, not being Muslim herself, didn't like traditional _Halal_ food and preferred to eat alone in her quarters. Catching Xon's warning glance, the first officer let the tropic drop and allowed Mohammed Jahma, who was more experienced in dealing with his brethren-in-faith, to lead the conversation.

Said conversation was done in Arabic, by the way, since the wives didn't seem to understand any other language, and their conservative views didn't allow the use of intradermal translation chips. Fortunately, Starfleet personnel didn't have to subject themselves to such restrictions; and besides, Xon had learned Arabic early on, both the language and the alphabet, to be able to study the works the great human mathematicians and astronomers of the Middle Ages in original, so there were no language barriers between them.

"Sidi Marouk," Mohammed Jahma began after they had finished the couscous (he and Xon agreed to share the careful asking between them), "You've mentioned shortly after our arrival that your predecessor, Dr. Ra'khal, had, well, rather… _peculiar_ methods to maintain the order in your society. Could you tell us a little more about it?"

Marouk was obviously flattered by having been addressed as _Sidi,_ and once again, Zara Jamal was amazed how easy it was to blind otherwise intelligent and learned men from very traditional families with a little flattery. _They're so used to be the peak of Creation that they take the most shameless sucking up for face value_, she thought, darkly amused. _Moh is dealing with him well_.

"Peculiar methods indeed," Marouk replied, stroking his goatee in a self-satisfied manner. "Dr. Ra'khal, may Allah be merciful to his soul, was literally obsessed with work. He wanted to show spectacular results with the farming, by any means necessary; and if I say by _any_ means, I mean it literally. The first generation of colonists was labouring on the fields day and night, but the plants native to Earth or Centaurus were reluctant to root in the local soil, and cross-breeding them didn't help much, either. Nonetheless, Dr. Ra'khal was unwilling to admit that his original plan hadn't worked out and he pressed forth the project, although everyone could see that it was doomed to fail."

"You speak of this Dr. Ra'khal in past tense," Mohammed Jahma commented innocently. "Does it mean that he isn't alive any longer, or have I mistaken you and he'd left the planet?"

"Nay, oh, this is a very sad and regrettable case," Marouk gave an almost convincing sight. "You see, after a while the colonists lost patience with the whole project and began to sabotage the farms... that started some five or six standard years ago… and when Dr. Ra'khal ordered the local militia to force them to continue their work, there was an, erm, insurrection. The riots lasted for some three or four months, and they only ended when Dr. Ra'khal was found one morning in the news office of her official residence, dead."

"Was it an assassination?" Xon asked quietly.

Marouk spread his hands in a falsely benevolent manner. "We'll never know, I'm afraid. An exploded communications console makes a lot of damage to human... I mean, Centaurian flesh. Unfortunately, we weren't able to figure out what had caused the explosion in the first place."

Xon glanced at Ilia discretely. The Deltan caught his glance and shook her head in a minuite gesture, signalling that once again, the governor had been lying. The fact that Deltans – unlike Vulcans – had no problems with using their emphatic abilities made the work of intel-gathering a lot easier.

"I assume that Mr. Baris, the Federation Undersecretary of Agrarian Affairs stopped those hopeless farming projects after that," the Vulcan commented innocently.

Marouk became visibly tense. "You know Nilz Baris?"

"Not personally," Xon replied in the same, seemingly clueless manner, "after all, Commander Decker and I have just begun our regular duty aboard the _Enterprise_. But we have all heard of the K7 incident, of course. It is a much preferred example during Academy courses concerning the expected policy in local conflicts."

Before Marouk could have said anything to this, Zara Jamal suddenly started to have difficulties with breathing. Her face became dark read, her lips became blue, her tears began to flow, and she was coughing, dryly, with obvious effort. The three wives, who hadn't shown the slightest interest for the conversation so far, awoke from their apathy at once.

"Commander," the eldest of them said in Arabic, "it seems that your yeoman is suffering from the illness that we call the dry fewer on Medina. She will need immediate treatment. Are your healers familiar with this illness?"

"Oh, I've treated Yeoman Jamal before," Dr. Noël lied without flinching. Had Zara Jamal really been suffering from the acute allergy of Medina, she'd never been accepted by Starfleet in the first place. "It would be the best if I took her back to her quarters and gave her a sedative, I think."

The middle-aged Haratin woman shook her head in honest concern; it made Zara feel bad about the deceit.

"Common sedatives won't help ease the dry fever," the senior wife said. "Fortunately, we have well-tested homemade remedies for soothing the attack. Our sister Dathma," she glanced briefly at the most junior wife who had been coughing frequently into the corner of her dark blue veil, "often needs such medicine. If you wish, we can send a jug of herbal tea to your quarters."

"I'm sure Jasmine is up to this task," Marouk interrupted in atone that broke no protests. The Haratin woman slumped back to her place with downcast eyes – she must have been used to that kind of treatment and had probably regretted having shown initiative in the first place.

The young Egyptian woman jumped to her feet with an ease only people used to sitting on the floor from childhood on are capable of.

"In a moment, Father," she looked at the lady doctor. "I'll take the tea to your quarters right away. Please wait for me."

* * *

And indeed, barely had Dr. Noël and her "patient" reached the guest quarters when Jasmine was coming already, carrying a long-snouted, round-bellied brass jug.

"Don't worry," she said in Standard, closing the door behind her, "I won't betray you." Seeing their surprised faces, she giggled. "I know you're faking the symptoms in order to have an excuse to return to your ship. My mother died from the dry fever; believe me, I know all too well what the genuine item looks like."

"If that's true, then I'm surprised that Governor Marouk hasn't seen through our little game yet," Dr. Noël said. Jasmine shrugged cynically.

"Father never cared for my mother; not after she'd dared to disappoint him so much by bearing a daughter, instead of a proper heir," she replied; her voice was surprisingly bitter. "Of course, her other wives had never been capable of doing even _that_ much," she added with another shrug. Dr. Noël frowned.

"So, you're practically his only heir?" she asked.

"No," Jasmine alFaisal replied bitterly. "I'm a woman – the laws of Medina don't allow me to inherit either my father's wealth or his business. And living here isn't any different, you know. I'm nothing but my father's daughter… his possession that might earn him even more wealth and influence, assuming he manages to marry me off to the most promising candidate. Sometimes I wish I weren't the only woman whose brains hadn't been made to mash through that damn network Father has installed everywhere. Things would probably be easier to bear that way."

"What exactly does the network?" Zara Jamal asked. "I assume it wasn't part of Dr. Ra'khal's _peculiar methods_, was it?"

"Of course not," Jasmine replied nervously. "The old man didn't do anything bad. Listen, I can't stay longer. But don't return to your ship right away – that would be too obvious. Wait till midnight; I'll try to come back and tell you everything I know. But I must return to the dinner, or else Father will become suspicious."

"Why would you want to help us?" Dr. Noël asked in surprise. Janice glanced back over her shoulder in dismay.

"Do you really think that I _want_ to spend my entire life in this glass tower, closed in with Father's brainless marionettes? Well, think again!"

* * *

Jasmine alFaisal kept her word, although it was way beyond midnight when she finally returned.

"I must be very careful," she explained, "if I don't want to be shut away and under constant surveillance like Father's wives."

"Do they connect to the network, too?" Zara Jamal asked. She looked a lot better now, that Dr. Noël had given her the antidote. Jasmine laughed and shook her head.

"Of course not, for them all such things are a work of Satan; after all, people _enjoy_ the experience, and the wives consider all pleasant things sinful. Not that they would _need_ the network anyway; they're practically brain dead as it is."

"Why should they be?" Mohammed Jahma asked in his deep, surprisingly gentle voice.

For a moment, Jasmine eyed him with thinly veiled appreciation, then she sighed and shook her head again.

"They could never deal with the fact that they aren't on Medina anymore. Father has arranged all four of his marriages with the wives' families, and he's never cared about whether they wanted to leave Medina or not."

"Women are seldom asked on Medina what they want," Zara Jamal commented dryly. Jasmine gave her a bitter smile.

"You could tell a tale about that, too, can't you? Well, I for my part am glad never having set a foot on Medina, but these poor wretches would sell their souls for the chance to go back there. The culture shock was too much for them to bear."

"Is that the reason why the governor doesn't trust them?" Mohammed Jahma asked slowly. Jasmine nodded.

"Sure; he knows they'd betray him to Federation authorities in a wink of an eye, just to get out of here. And so would I," she added cynically. "I want to leave this place. I want to make something out of my life. And Father is in my way."

"That sounds a bit… cold, don't you think?" Mohammed Jahma reproached gently.

Jasmine shrugged. "I've been caged here for _years_ – and he's the one who holds the keys of my cage. Had he given me air to breathe, I won't be forced to betray him. It's his fault."

Mohammed Jahma didn't like the tone she was speaking about her father, but he realized that it wasn't his job to mediate between the family members as he would do back home, in Niamey, where he was considered one of the pillars of the community. So he just shook his head, a bit sadly, and let the others needle the girl for more information.

"Is it true that Governor Marouk was a friend of Danielle's father?" Decker asked. Jasmine nodded.

"On Rigel VI; yeah, it's true. Danielle and I used to play together in our courtyard when we were children, and Father genuinely liked her. When she came to visit us here, Father tried to keep her from… well, whatever is going on here. He actually intended to let her go again in ignorance, after her visit. But Danielle was too curious, she always was. On one 'payday', she stepped into one of those cursed niches, just to see what would happen, and afterwards, she began to ask uncomfortable questions. So it was decided to integrate her, so that she won't leave and couldn't tell people what she's seen."

"Can you explain us what exactly is going on here?" Xon asked. Jasmine shrugged.

"Well, I'm no communications expert, but… As far as I understand, it's all about increasing the efficiency of the workers through stimulation of certain areas of the brain. On 'paydays', which are on every day for newcomers and every second or third day for fully integrated citizens, they enter these niches when signalled, and are subjected to certain frequencies that cause a general feeling of euphoria, because they directly simulate the brain's pleasure centre. The damned thing makes addictive, and that incredibly fast. Apparently, should they be suddenly disconnected, people might kill each other in murderous attacks of rage, so dependent from the stimulation have they become."

"And if the frequencies would be changed?" asked Dr. Noël, remembering the discussion she'd had with Uhura a few days earlier.

Jasmine spread her hands with the same gesture as her father usually did. "No idea, doc, I don't understand a thing about such things. The traditional clans on Medina don't believe in the higher education of daughters. The only thing I was ever taught is how to become an obedient and satisfying little wife… not that they'd have managed to do a good job with me, mind you."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Mohammed Jahma asked gently.

"Are _you_ married?" Jasmine asked back.

"Of course I am," the Nigerian replied calmly. "I have two wives back home, in Niamey, and five children; the sixth one is on his or her way."

"And do _your_ wives know anything else but the Koran and the cooking pots?" Jasmine asked in a slightly hostile manner.

The Nigerian smiled tolerantly. "Indeed they do. Mojdeh and I have studied together on Tiburon – she's a communications technician – and Farrah graduated from an advanced trade school. She and my elder brother take care of the family business while I'm on longer missions."

Jasmine sighed longingly. "I've heard that on Earth, things are different. I'd like to return there myself; to Egypt, where the ancestors of my mother have come. I still have some distant family there; they're highly respected and work in diplomatic service. That's exactly what I've got a certain talent for, and that's what I'd like to do. Could you take me with you when you leave Thimsel?"

"Well, that's the Captain's decision, of course," Decker said thoughtfully, "but I guess if you help us to clear up this whole mess here, he'd be inclined to do something for you in exchange."

"And we can always lay in a good word for you," Mohammed Jahma added, smiling.

"I'll do what I can," Jasmine promised. "What else do you want to know?"

"We have been unable to localize the source of those stimulation waves with our sensors," Xon began slowly. Jasmine nodded.

"Small wonder; the sender is situated outside of Aeropolis, in a shielded area of one of the industrial domes. Unfortunately, I don't know the coordinates, but you must have a map of Thimsel, or do you not?"

"We do," Mohammed Jahma said, "but they are at least thirty years old, from the very beginning of the planet's colonization."

"That won't be a problem," Jasmine said. "It's the old RA-04 ore processing plant that was closed down fourteen years ago. It's been the operations centre of Father and his associates for a while by now."

"Do you mean the _Free Merchants' Guild_ or the Orion Syndicate?" Decker asked.

"Is there a difference?" Jasmine asked back cynically. "Besides, human members of the _Guild_ originate usually from the Middle Eastern region from Earth and thus look a little like regular Orions, at least for the naked eye… and seeing from a great enough distance. Or have you ever heard of an Orion merchant that did _not_ belong to the Syndicate?"

"That is true, I am afraid," Xon agreed.

"How did the _Free Merchants_ manage to build a foothold here to begin with?" Mohammed Jahma asked with a frown. "No self-respecting colony leader would ever do business with them, considering their reputation. Or did Dr. Ra'khal work with them towards the same goal?"

"Not to my knowledge," Jasmine shook her head, "but he depended on them. The usual trade routes avoid Thimsel because the planet has such an inconvenient location. Besides, my father has always had a fairly good reputation. He used to be an honest businessman for a long time, and his membership in the _Guild_ was never public. Governor Ra'khal was certain that he can trust Father; that was a mistake for which he paid with his life."

"It was _no_ accident then, I presume?" Xon guessed.

"Of course not," Jasmine replied, "although it's true that in the last years of his rule there were… riots. But it wasn't his fault. He was a friendly old man who never harmed anyone. The protests were aimed my father, at that time the governor's aide and already responsible for the delegation of work. People didn't take it well when he shot down the agrarian projects on his own authority and pressed on with the extensive mining. Governor Ra'khal was his marionette… his scapegoat. When he didn't need one any longer, he had the old man removed."

"An… organized accident, then," the Vulcan commented. Jasmine nodded.

"You'd never be able to prove his part in it, of course," she added. "He never does these things himself. And his helping hands, the ones who do the dirty work for him, usually fall victim to accidents themselves, somewhat later. You have to be very careful."

"We do our best," Xon said calmly. "It stands beyond doubt that we need to neutralize that operations centre first. How heavily is it defended?"

"I don't know," Jasmine shrugged. "I haven't been allowed to leave Aeropolis since we moved here. But I'm sure Father has the building well-protected against his business associates. They don't trust each other."

"I wonder why," Decker murmured. Xon ignored him and continued with his questions.

"Do you know where all the people who are now inhabiting Aeropolis have come from?" he asked. "Theoretically, the colony should only have about twenty thousand inhabitants."

"The workers, usually male ones, coma from a Federation world called Ardana," jasmine explained. "They're transported in the state of an artificial coma and are only woken up when they'd been delivered to their assigned barracks. The first conditioning takes place during the journey, so that they're already addicted when they arrive. The same thing happens to the women, only that they come mostly from Orion."

"Exactly how we've suspected," Mohammed Jahma murmured; then he gave the girl a sharp look. "For someone who's been isolated from the outside world for years, you're awfully well-informed."

"I'm isolated, not stupid," Jasmine hissed, her jewel-like eyes glittering in anger. "Plus, I haven't lived here all my life. On Rigel VI, I used to go to school like the other children. I got the chance to learn things, and I'm good with computers. Fortunately, my father believes I'm just as dumb as his wives, so I can get all the information I need when he's occupied with other things. Besides," she added, a bit less aggressively, "Father expects an Orion cargo fleet in a short time. If you need hard proof, it would perhaps be a good idea to intercept those ships."

Decker and Mohammed Jahma exchanged worried looks.

"We need to inform the captain," the First Officer said. "Immediately. Can we beam out from here unharmed?"

Jasmine nodded. "The guest quarters are not shielded. Father's business partners come by transporter, too."

"Good," Decker turned to Zara. "Yeoman, are your ready?"

"She is, and so am I," Dr. Noël answered. "You didn't think I'd let her go alone and raise suspicions about my medical ethics, did you?"

Without waiting for an answer from the slightly flabbergasted XO, she and Zara hit their bell buckles, setting off the transporter alarm. Only seconds later, the golden glow of the transporter field enveloped them, and they dematerialized.

To make things more believable, Decker checked in with the _Enterprise_, reporting that Yeoman Jamal was having health problems and thus needed to return to the ship with Dr. Noël. The duty officer on the bridge, who happened to be Lt. Jaeger, acknowledged and broke the connection again.

"What now?" Mohammed Jahma asked.

"Now we wait," Decker replied calmly. "That is, _you_ wait here with the lieutenants. I've something to do before the night is over."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15 The Trap

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's note:** The particulars about the _Enterprise_'s updated sickbay are, as always, from _Mr. Scott's Guide to the Enterprise_ by Shane Johnson. The transport containers are described in great detail in _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph. The bat-like pirate ship had its only appearance in the Animated Series episode "The Pirates of Orion".

**

* * *

CHAPTER 15 – THE TRAP**

Uhura turned with her seat to the command chair, excitement shining in her dark, almond-shaped eyes.

"Captain," she said, "I've just got a report from communications lab number two. My people might have found a solution."

"What sort of solution?" Kirk asked.

"Well, sir, Dr. Noël and I have established the theory that by changing the frequency of the addictive broadcast we might eliminate the constant stimulation of the pleasure centre of the brain and thus eventually make withdrawal possible," Uhura began, but Kirk interrupted her.

"I know that already, Uhura. What about the results?"

"Lieutenant Brent and Ensign Freeman have just found the right frequency, Captain," Uhura replied simply. "It's close enough to the original broadcast to initiate slow withdrawal, without making the symptoms life-threatening… or unbearable unpleasant. We can continue from that level gradually, with the help of therapists trained to treat addictions later on. Of course they'll all need extensive psychotherapy later, probably in a closed medical colony, but this is a beginning nevertheless… a promising one."

"Excellent!" Kirk exclaimed in relief; then he added, a bit more soberly. "Are you really sure that it will work?"

"Dr. McCoy and Dr. Noël are both optimistic, sir," Uhura said. "But we'll have to run a few tests first, of course, with volunteers from different races. First we're going to expose them to the original broadcast for a short while, and monitor the effect through brain scans. Then we'll use the modified frequency on them and compare the scan results. Dr. T'Pel, Ensign Lamia, Dr. Adzhin-Dall and Yeoman Jamal have already volunteered as test subjects."

"Are you really sure that they won't be harmed by the process?" Kirk asked doubtfully. Uhura shook her head.

"That's highly unlikely, sir. We'll only subject them to the broadcast for a very short time. Besides, Nurse Chapel will be monitoring their biosignals during the whole experiment. Dr. Noël says the risk is acceptable."

"Very well," Kirk said, still not entirely happy with the idea, but realizing that it was necessary. "You may begin with the preparations, Commander."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Uhura transferred duty to Liv Palmer and rode the turbolift down to Level 7 to the intensive care area of sickbay. The new medical centre of the ship took up quite a broad slice of this deck, and contained an operating room, the adjoining office and lab of the chief medical officer, with cryogenic storage units and sterile passageways, an examination room with its own transporter unit and washroom, and, on the other hand of the examination room, the intensive care unit, with its nine biobeds, with transparent partition doors. These units were placed like the pieces of a half-opened fane, with the duty nurse's station at its narrow focus, with surveillance monitors for each biobed.

Since there weren't any patients in sickbay at the moment, they had decided to run the experiment here, as the new equipment made it possible for the head nurse to monitor the state of all four volunteers simultaneously.

Said volunteers were already lying on the biobeds and waiting for the experiment to begin. They seemed calm enough; only Ensign Lamia's antennae twitched nervously, but that wasn't surprising from an Andorian. They were an easily agitated species as a rule. Christine Chapel, the head nurse of the _Enterprise_, was already sitting at her surveillance station, and she looked up expectantly when Uhura entered.

"I'm ready," she said. "We can start whenever you want."

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Willard Decker peeked carefully around the corner of the corridor. A few yards before the next turn, high at the ceiling, he discovered the surveillance camera Jasmine alFaisal had mentioned, and he adjusted his communicator, so that it would emanate a scattering frequency. According to Mohammed Jahma's calculations, he would have about twenty minutes to speak with Danielle. The security guard was known to be very good at such things, but even if he were wrong in this particular case, Decker didn't really care. He couldn't leave Aeropolis without speaking with Danielle first. Without trying to rescue her from here.

The versatile Jasmine alFaisal had been able to tell him the opening code to Danielle's door as well, so Decker didn't need to risk buzzing and having caught while standing around in front of her quarters. Granted, there _was_ a slight chance that Jasmine had been misleading them – trying to win their trust while still serving her father's agenda – but that was a risk he _had_ to take. Even if it meant to endanger the entire mission. He knew he'd have to take responsibility for his actions, that Captain Kirk would _not_ be happy, but right now, he couldn't be bothered with such considerations. Danielle had always meant a lot to him, and knowing that she hadn't left him voluntarily also meant he had to do something to help her. At the very least, he had to try.

Besides, he had ordered Mohammed Jahma to keep an eye on Jasmine's quarters. Just in case.

Before he could change his mind (which, frankly, would have been the sensible thing to do), he hurriedly keyed in the code, half-expecting to set off the alarm and alert the entire city police. But nothing of the kind happened. The door opened noiselessly, allowing him into Danielle's quarters.

There was almost complete darkness within. The only source of light was a matte area on one wall that glowed weakly. Decker tried to get his bearings. From the foyer, in which he was standing, two doors let to other rooms. One of those doors stood open, and even though nothing could be seen in the darkness beyond, Decker recognized the elusive scent of perfume – it was Odéon 7, the brand Danielle had always used.

"Danielle?" he asked quietly, moving carefully further inside. "_Danielle, es-tu ici? C'est moi, Will_."

There was no answer, but Decker's keen ears could hear the laboured breathing of someone from the other room. As if someone had been crying silently.

"Danielle," he tried again, "_nous besoin parler... s'il vous plait, j'ai seulement dix minutes_," he switched to English, too nervous to seek for the proper French expression, "before I'll get caught! "

"Computer, lights at twenty-five per cent," Danielle's warm, pleasant voice, now so much more alive than it had been in the anteroom of the governor's office, came from some distance.

Dim light illuminated the bedroom, barely enough for someone to get their bearings. Somewhat more confident now, Decker entered the spacious, almost completely empty room, where the only pieces of furniture were a low, flat couch, a computer terminal and a small make-up table… next to which the obligatory, man-shaped niche could be seen in the wall. Apparently, the inhabitants of Aeropolis were _not_ to miss a "payday", no matter what.

Danielle was curled up in the farthest corner of the couch, wearing a bathrobe; her ash-blonde hair fell in unruly waves over her shoulder. Her face was almost ghostly white, and there were dark rings under her eyes. Decker hadn't seen her like this since they had both decided to leave the "New Mankind", years earlier.

"You shouldn't have come here, will." She murmured, her teeth clattering from the shivers that shook her entire body. "My quarters are watched, all the time."

"I've disabled the surveillance camera…. Temporarily, at least," without waiting for an invitation, Decker sat down next to the trembling young woman and hugged her tightly. Since the beginning of their acquaintance, Danielle had always wakened this ages-old, protective instinct in him, even back when they both had been barely more than children. She had always been so unhappy, so… lost, so helpless, like and exiled princess who didn't find her place in a hostile world. "Jasmine alFaisal told us how you'd got caught in this situation, _ma chérie_. But perhaps it's still not too late. I've come with Starfleet's flagship, we'll clean out Marouk's mess, and then I'll get help for you."

"I've tried, Will," Danielle shivered uncontrollably. "I've tried again and again to free myself from this… this slavery, but I couldn't. I've already been her too long."

"Speak not so, _ma chérie_," Decker chided her gently. "I'll take you with me to the _Enterprise_, as soon as our mission here is completed. You _are_ coming with you, aren't you?"

"I don't want anyone to see me like this," Danielle said softly.

"No one will, _ma chérie_, I promise," Decker kissed her cheek. "We'll beam you directly to sickbay, to Dr. Noël, our neuropsychologist. But you need help, Danielle, _professional_ help, if you want to be freed from your addiction. You _do_ want to be your old self again, don't you?"

"Of course I want, Will," Danielle wrapped her arms around the young man's neck, like in old times when their love had still been in the budding phase. "I've missed you so much. I need you so much! I know I might never be the same again, not like I used to be, but I want to be healed, at the very least. _If_ there's still healing for me, that is."

"Everything will be all right," Decker promised, rocking her in his arms like a desperate child, "better even than it used to be. When we got engaged, we were barely more than children. This long separation gave us the chance to grow up. We can work out away to find together again… if you're still willing to try."

"But what if they can't heal me?" Danielle asked sadly.

"That would be tragic," Decker admitted, "but don't worry, we'll cross _that_ bridge when – _if_ – the time comes. If it will be necessary at all. I won't abandon you, no matter what. First and foremost, you must get out of here, as soon as possible."

"It's _you_ who must get out of here first," Danielle reminded him. "You're running out of time as it is!"

"I'd say his time's just run out for good, Miss," a big Troglyte stood in the open door, clad in the grey tunic and high boots of Ardanan security, aiming an old-fashioned, heavy phaser pistol directly at Danielle's head. "No hasty actions, Commander, Or I'll have to shoot the girl on the spot."

"I'm not armed," Decker showed the guard his empty hand.

"Bad for you," the Troglyte replied indifferently; he sounded like a well-oiled machine that had no human emotions at all. "Good for us, though. At least you won't be causing any problems. Midro, get in and take Momma's boy; I'll give you cover."

Two other armed Troglytes marched in, and before the eyes of the shocked Danielle, they grabbed Decker's arm, who was holding his own belt buckle with both hands, and dragged him out of her quarters. Decker didn't resist.

When they were gone, Danielle ran to her terminal to alert the rest of the _Enterprise_'s landing party. But when she tried to access the communications system, she had to realize that her access code has been deleted. She was now completely isolated from the rest of Aeropolis – from the rest of the world.

xxx

Lieutenant Commander Decker's automated distress call woke Lieutenant Xon in the early hours of the local morning. Fortunately, Vulcans were light sleepers, or the signal would have gone unnoticed. Xon, however, had heard it, and got the others out of their beds in a minute.

When he reached Ilia's quarters, the Deltan was already widely awake. Apparently, she had heard the distress call as well.

"This is the automated transponder alert, set off by a simple pressure pattern on the belt buckle," the Vulcan said; then he looked around with a frown. "Where is Yeoman Jahma?"

"Mr. Decker ordered him to keep an eye on Jasmine alFaisal," Ilia shrugged, "in case she wasn't as honest as she wanted us to believe. I've alerted him, though."

The Nigerian was coming in already.

"We can get a lock on the signal, sir," he replied to Xon's question without hesitation. "However, it's unusually weak; I'm barely aware to locate it, and I'm sure the _Enterprise_ won't even pick it up. This mass of glass and ferroconcrete swallows _at least_ seventy per cent of signal strength, and the commander must be deeper within the building. We can't get around speaking with the ship, Lieutenant."

"I concur," Xon activated his wrist communicator; these new comm units had a higher signal strength than the old, hand-held ones, not to mention those of the transponders built in the belt buckles of the new uniforms. "Xon to _Enterprise_. "

"This is Lieutenant Palmer," came the immediate answer. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I need the captain, Lieutenant; and I need him _now_."

"He's in sickbay," Liv Palmer said. "I'll patch you through, sir."

She did so without delay, and a moment later the captain answered the call.

"Kirk here. What's it, Mr. Xon?"

"We have reason to believe that Commander Decker has been taken prisoner, Captain", Xon reported. "Yeoman Jahma has located his distress call deeper inside the building. We are about to clarify the situation, but we could use some support, sir."

"I'll send you a security team as soon as we can afford to lower the shields," Kirk promised, "but we can't do it right now. We're awaiting the arrival of that Orion trade caravan in any moment."

"Understood," Xon said after a short pause. "We are on our own, then."

"Temporarily, yes," Kirk replied, "so be careful. And tell Lieutenant Ilia to stay away from the damned computer network. Deltan brains seem to react badly at the broadcast. Dr. Adzhin-Dall fainted after a five-minute-try. Kirk out"

"Sound delightful," Ilia commented dryly; then she added something that ranked highly in the hierarchy of popular Deltan curses. Deltans rarely lowered themselves to _mild_ swearing; this, too, was an art form for them, after all.

"You should stay here," Xon ordered. "Wet your phaser at _heavy_ stun, and shoot everyone who tries to come through that door."

"By all respect, Lieutenant," the Deltan replied calmly, while setting her phaser to the highest stun level, one that would cause hours-long unconsciousness by every warm-blooded species, "this is not my first landing mission on a hostile planet. I'm well aware of what I have to do."

* * *

Aboard the _Enterprise_ the alarm klaxons of the red alert were howling when Kirk returned to the bridge, and with him all senior officers who weren't currently on Thimsel. The air of tense expectation was lying about the bridge. All eyes were fixed on the main screen that showed a live feed from the short-range sensors.

Mr. Scott had raised the standby mode of the currently off-line warp core to seventy-five per cent and set the impulse engines at full standby alert. Ensign Cleary, the middle-aged chief technician of Engineering, had re-checked the readiness of the ersatz reactors and made the necessary preparations for the eventually necessary separation of the primary hull – just in case.

Chekov went down to the B-deck, in order to oversee the defence systems personally. Angela Martine-Teller had brought the phaser banks to full standby alert and activated the targeting systems. The photon torpedoes had been shoved into the tubes, the warheads equipped with the standard amount of antimatter. The shuttles and escape pods had been readied to evacuate the crew, should it become necessary.

Dr. McCoy had put sickbay on full alert, but he hadn't left the bridge, as Dr. M'Benga assured him that he'd be able to keep everything under control down there. Kirk didn't comment this, although the CMO should have – theoretically – remained in sickbay in such cases. The fact was, though, that Bones' presence had a soothing effect on the nerves of the bridge crew – and that of the captain, too.

"There they come," Chief DiFalco, who was standing in for Lieutenant Ilia, said quietly, after some fifteen minutes of waiting.

And there they were coming indeed: no less than four large, bulky, fully automated drones, modified from Type MK-II dry bulks that originally had to be attached to _Ptolemy_-class transport tugs. These, however, seemed to have their own low-capacity warp and impulse engines, and were escorted by a strange vessel of unknown configuration that had the peculiar likeness to an oversized, reddish bat.

"That's a typical pirate vessel, Captain," Lieutenant Osborne declared. "Her phaser can't seriously hit the _Enterprise_, but she's very fast. I suggest a phaser salve _and_ a strong tractor beam, simultaneously."

"Unfortunately, we're not allowed to shoot at unknown vessels without provocation," Kirk pointed out, clearly unhappy about _that_ fact.

"That's correct, sir; however, if we stop to chat with them a bit first, we might never get the chance to open fire," Lieutenant Osborne argued. "At impulse power, we can't maneuver a ship of the size of the _Enterprise_ quickly enough for that."

"I know," Kirk said unhappily, "but you know the regulations as well as I do. Lieutenant. Washburn, can you scan those freighters? I'd like to know where they come from."

"They are basically simple Type MK-II containers, sir," Rick Washburn, sitting at Xon's console, replied. "Usually, this type isn't designed for the transport of personnel, as it contains simple storage rooms instead of cabins. They are usually built in the private shipyards of Aldebaran. They have a weight of 80,000 metric tons each, and would have, at least in theory, room for five hundred passengers per container. I'm not sure how one could manage the journey without basic environmental systems, though. Especially considering the fact that the engines that have been built in afterwards take in a lot of space. I estimate their highest travelling velocity to be warp 4, tops. I've thought they wouldn't be sold to non-Federation worlds, though."

"That doesn't mean a thing," Kirk dismissed the details. "There's a black market for just about everything in the grey areas outside of direct Federation control."

"True," Lieutenant Osborne agreed. "I still suspect that there's more behind this, sir. With your permission, I'd like to send a report to Commodore Drake Reed about these founds."

"Once this is over, you're free to do so," said Kirk. Commodore Didier Drake reed was the head of Starfleet Intelligence and thus the man best suited to find out any possible connections between the takeover on Thimsel and other potentially dangerous illegal actions.

"_Our_ priority isn't the origin of these ships at the moment, though," the captain continued. "Lieutenant Washburn, can you define what kind of cargo they have aboard?"

"Mostly living biomatter, sir," Washburn replied, after a second set of scans. "But I can't get any details, and the lifesigns are very weak."

"That matches our intel about slaves being transported in a kind of artificial coma," Dr. Noël commented. "If they're lying in stasis units, environmental systems won't be necessary."

"I get the same internal broadcast from each transport ship as we know it from Aeropolis," Uhura added. "Should we be able to enter any of the ships, we might find out if the conditioning could be reversed in his early, very intensive phase."

"Ve've to neutralize the pirate vessel first for _that_," Chekov chimed in from his office via intercom. "Ve could, for example, tractor them, since there's reason to suspect they'd flee othervise, and _then_ ask the questions, _Keptin_."

"Makes sense for me, Jim," McCoy commented, without being asked.

Kirk nodded. "For me, too. All right, Mr. Chekov, activate the tractor beam."

"Tractor beam activated, _sair_."

"Commander Uhura, call the Orion vessel."

"Healing frequencies open, captain."

"Orion vessel, this is Captain James T. Kirk from the Federations starship _Enterprise_. You've entered Federation territory without permission, and we have the well-founded suspicion that you're transporting slaves. Lower your shields and prepare yourselves to be entered."

"No answer, sir," Uhura replied, but Charlene Masters, who manned the engineering station for Mr. Scott, interrupted her.

"They're powering up their weapons, sir!"

"Lieutenant Osborne," Kirk swivelled his chair to Tactical, "do you know where the weapons systems of that pirate vessel are located?"

"Of course, Captain," Osborne replied.

"Are you capable of disabling those systems with point-blank phaser shots?"

"I believe so, Captain."

"What are you waiting for, then?" Kirk demanded.

Lieutenant Osborne smiled. "Just for a word from you, Captain, sir."

"By Kolker, do it!" Kirk ordered, slightly exasperated.

"Aye-aye, sir!"

Lieutenant Osborne located the fire control centre of the Orion pirate vessel with a skill that spoke of copious former experience (not to mention very _quickly_) and burned it out with a tightly bundled phaser beam the way an infested wound would be cauterized. The pirate ship might be fast, but its shields were no match for the _Enterprise_'s new, powerful phaser banks. The thought that there were living, thinking beings burned to ash next to the phaser controls made Uhura physically sick. True, the Orions were pirates and slavers, but still… _nobody_ deserved such a horrible death.

She stole a glance at Osborne's broad face – usually friendly and smiling – that was pale and hard now. Despite the centuries-long military tradition of his family, the lieutenant still couldn't get used to the fact that – in order to protect his own people – he sometimes had to take lives. Starfleet Security trained soldiers, not murderers. The image of the fiery death of those Orions would likely follow Lieutenant Osborne all his life. Bit it wouldn't hinder him to fulfil his duty in similar situations it the future. Of that Uhura, who had already served one full mission with the pleasant-mannered security officer, was absolutely certain.

"Weapons systems neutralized, sir," Osborne reported in a tight voice.

Kir nodded. "Good. Take a security team and enter the Orion vessel. We'll need the testimony of the crew."

"I'm afraid you'll have to give up on that, sir," Osborne replied in his best British manner.

Before Kirk could have asked why, Chekov cried out down on the B-deck

"Reinforce shields!"

Lieutenant Masters rerouted all available power to the new, stronger shields… in the last minute. Where just a moment earlier the russet, bat-like Orion ship had been hanging on the end of the _Enterprise_'s tractor beam, now a terrible fire-rose of an explosion bloomed soundlessly. Even though Lieutenant Masters had been able to cut the tractor beam in time, the shockwaves rattled the _Enterprise_ with a force that threw everyone from their seats. Well, everyone with the exception of Lieutenant Osborne, who – proving his excellent reflexes once again – had managed to hold on to his console.

"The pirates of Orion are known of their reluctance to surrender, Captain," he explained, massaging his midsection, that had caught the blunt of the impact with the console, with a painful grimace. "In hopeless situations they prefer self-destruction to captivity."

"Report!" Kirk barked.

Uhura clambered to her feet and called in damage and casualty reports from all over the ship.

"No essential systems have been damaged, sir," she reported, relieved. "No casualties, either. Some bruises, some surface cuts. Dr. M'Benga means he's got everything under control. Engineering has already dispatched repair teams."

"What about the freighter drones?" Kirk asked. As he didn't get any answer, he swivelled around with his chair. "Lieutenant Masters?"

Charlene Masters was lying on the floor, curled in a foetal position, apparently unconscious. Dr. McCoy hurried to her side, examining her with the Feinberger module, re-checked the results with his medical tricorder – and his face became very grim at once.

"Jim, this woman is three months pregnant," he said, "_and_ she's suffered a heavy concussion. If I don't get her to sickbay immediately, she can lose her baby."

Boomer turned away from the helm, his face ash grey from fear. "Captain, permission to go to sickbay with them…"

"Granted," Kirk waved generously. In his current state, Boomer was more a risk at the helm than any use. "Mr. Sulu, take over for him. Uhura, call for a trauma team."

Uhura was already at it. Within two minutes, the med techs came running with an antigrav gurney and whisked Lieutenant Masters with the bridge, with Dr. McCoy and a trembling Boomer in trail. Shortly thereafter Judy Sherven, one of the nurse practitioners, arrived to treat the small injuries of the bridge personnel in duty. Yeoman Mears took over for Lieutenant Masters at the engineering station.

"The freighter drones seem to be intact, Captain," Lieutenant Washburn reported, "although they, too, must have been shaken thoroughly. They have only minimal shielding. Two of them are drifting off their original course."

"Which means we'll have to check everywhere whether the stasis units have been damaged or not," Kirk sighed. "Lieutenant Osborne, ask sickbay for a med team and check those freighters. Take a group of diagnostic engineers and technicians, too, and try to return to drifting drones to their original course. We can't let them get lost; there are a thousand people aboard."

"Aye-aye, sir," Osborne was already on his way out.

"I'd like to join them, Captain," Dr. Noël said. "That would be an excellent opportunity to see if our scattering program truly works. If it does not, we'll have to call in a medical emergency vessel with high priority."

"Permission granted. But I need Uhura here, so choose someone else from Communications to help you."

"Lieutenant Brent and Ensign Freeman can do it without me," Uhura agreed. In this particular case she didn't mean staying on the bridge, as she wanted to keep informed about Lieutenant Masters' condition all the time.

Then she was distracted by an external call.

"Captain," she said, "Lieutenant Ilia is calling us from Aeropolis."

"Patch her through, Commander."

"Aye-aye, sir," Uhura put the call on the loudspeakers.

"_Enterprise_," the Deltan's voice was distant and full of underlying static, "we need help here. Lieutenant Xon and Yeoman Jahma haven't returned from their rescue action. I've got their distress signal ten minutes ago."

"Kirk here. Can you dispatch the signal to us?"

"Negative, sir. The amount of ferroconcrete all around us makes an exact location impossible. But they were on Level 456 when they checked in the last time."

"Understood. What's your situation?"

"Not so good, sir. I've welded all doors shut with my ersatz phaser, but it's only a matter of time for city security to cut through them. They've already managed two doors."

"Well, in that case we'd better get you out of there. Kirk to transporter room."

"Transporter room, Rand here."

"Lock on to Lieutenant Ilia's communicator and beam her back, Janice."

"Understood, sir," there were a few moments of tense silence, then Janice Rand reported back. "Bridge, this is transporter room. Lieutenant Ilia has arrived, safe and sound."

"Send her up to the bridge. Kirk out," the captain switched channels to the security office. "I need all security teams, Chief. Beam one directly to Governor Marouk's office; they should arrest him. Give them personal shields, just in case. Send Team #2 to find our missing people. Give teams three through nine heavy phaser rifles and have them beamed directly to this old RA-04 ore processing plant. They should neutralize Marouk's operation centre. Call up the old maps of the area and give them to Lieutenant Garrovick. He'll lead the assault. You'll go with Team #1 to Aeropolis."

"Understood, _sair_," Chekov replied, a bit disappointed that he wasn't allowed to lead the assault against the power centre of the enemy.

"Captain," Ilia, just arriving in time to hear the orders, said, "I'd like to join Mr. Chekov's team and return to Aeropolis. I'm the only one available who's been in Marouk's quarters already, unless Yeoman Jamal has fully recovered."

"She has not," Nurse Sherven said. "Dr. McCoy allows her light duty only. It will take days until she is her old self again."

"Then I'm the only one left," Ilia argued. "Captain, they'll need someone who knows the place-"

Kirk nodded in agreement. "Very well, Lieutenant. All teams assemble in the transporter room within ten minutes. Are Lieutenant Osborne and his team gone?"

"They've left exactly thirty second ago and have just reported back from the first freighter, Captain," Uhura answered.

"Good," Kirk said grimly. "It's high time that we get some serious action. We've lurked around her long enough."

TBC


	16. Chapter 16 Escape Tactics

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes: **In case you're interested in the _Articles of the Federation_, you can read them in _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph. The spelling of Chekov's speech is intentional, based on his accent.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 6 – ESCAPE TACTICS**

Governor Marouk was sitting contentedly in his large office, behind a desk of true wood that would have put a barge to shame by the sheer size of it, and he was sipping sorbet from a tall glass. At least it _looked_ like sorbet. In truth, his drink would certainly not match the regulations every faithful Muslim was expected to follow, as it had a fairly high percentage of alcohol. But Marouk alFaisal ibn Haziz had long decided that alcohol prohibition was one of those rules of the Faith had weren't necessarily binding for him.

Of course, he was careful enough to keep these little escapades of his hidden from everyone, even from his own wives. _Especially_ from his own wives, who were devoted traditionalists and would report him to the authorities on Medina. Not that the community would have any means to punish him – after all, he hadn't lived on Medina anymore – but they could have declared him a renegade, and _that_ would not bode well for his business interests. Most of his associates still lived on Medina, and even within the _Free Merchant's Guild_, it was often an advantage to be known as a deeply religious man. People – even those who should've known better – tended to trust him, due to his reputation.

That didn't mean, however, that he'd have been willing to give up the small niceties of life when no one from the community could watch him. Or that he'd give up on his meticulously worked-out plans, just because a young fool like Willard Decker wanted to stick his snotty nose into things that were none of his business.

He should have known from the beginning that Danielle DuMolin would be nothing but trouble. But the girl's father had been his business associate, back on Rigel VI, and in Marouk's family business associates were considered as close as family members... if not closer. He did feel a bit sorry for Danielle, who was apparently very unhappy in Aeropolis, but he couldn't afford to be brought off course, not even by compassion. Things were developing promisingly; this was not the time to become weak. Not even towards a young girl whom he loved like his own flesh and blood.

Marouk's visitor, a thin, sour-faced, middle-aged man with thinning, smoothed-back dark hair and the strong resemblance to a steward with a tooth-ache, saw their situation in a less than rosy light, though.

"I'm afraid you're making a mistake, Marouk," he said, ill-humoured. "It's not just any ship circling around your planet. It's the _Enterprise_, with Kirk in the command chair. And while he might be an arrogant bastard – hell, he actually _is_ an arrogant bastard – he's not a fool. You won't be able to mislead him for too long."

Marouk sent a quick prayer to the Prophet, asking for patience. He'd bitterly regretted (several times, in fact) during the last years that he'd been forced to use Nilz Baris for the realization of his plans. The Federation undersecretary for agrarian affairs might have had the influence needed for the further development of Marouk's vision, but as a person, he was completely useless. _And_ he chafed on Marouk's nerves. Unfortunately, he couldn't get rid of him now. The _accident_ of such a high-ranking and widely known bureaucrat would have caused unwanted interest and a thorough investigation, both things that Marouk couldn't afford. Not _yet_, anyway.

"You're full of nerves, Baris; that's your problem," he replied in a bored tone. "Don't get into epileptic fits just yet. It doesn't matter what Kirk does – or doesn't – believe, as long as all workers will swear that they're happy here and want to stay here for the rest of their lives, out of their own free will. And they _will_ swear, trust me."

"Are you sure about that?" Baris wasn't entirely convinced.

"Of course I am," Marouk answered calmly. "Firstly, they firmly believe it themselves. Secondly, they'd all die without their regular doses of stimulation, so what's the matter? Besides, we still have Kirk's people in our hands as bargaining chips."

"Yeah, we have them now, but after you've given them back?"

"I won't… not right away, that is. I'll send them after the _Enterprise_, once she's left the entire sector. Our Orion trade associates will deliver them to an appointed place, far, far away from here… all of them but one. One I'm going to keep."

"You're gonna do… _what_?"

Nilz Baris stared at the governor like someone who apparently didn't believe his own ears. Like all moderately intelligent bureaucrats who were disappointed with their career that hadn't turned out according to their dreams, he, too, was more than willing to take part in more or less illegal business activities, accept bribes and misuse his influence in order to get what, according to his unreal expectations, was his due. But like most bureaucrats, he, too, was basically a coward, and kidnapping – not to mention eventual murder – was beyond the amount of risks he would have taken voluntarily. Unfortunately for him, though, he was already as dependant on Marouk as the governor was dependant on him. Neither of them was in a position to quit this forced cooperation. And Baris – unlike Marouk – didn't even have the means to get rid of his now way too powerful and uncomfortable partner in crime through a well-orchestrated accident in a later time.

The governor shrugged and poured him another shot of "sorbet".

"This Mohammed Jahma; I'm going to keep him. He's the first man Jasmine has ever shown interest in, and she's ay beyond the age our daughters usually marry. The man is intelligent, a trained security officer… and he's served in Starfleet for thirteen years. He certainly knows a lot of things that can be useful for me. Besides, he's a practicing Muslim – a perfect match. After proper conditioning, I'll marry off Jasmine to him and make him the chief of security in Aeropolis. Then I'll arrange for his other two wives and their children to be moved here from Earth and integrate their family business into mine. That way, I'll get access to Terran trade contracts."

"And you really think you'll be able to trust him?" Baris asked doubtfully. Marouk gave him a thin, icy smile.

"What other chance would he ever have than to be loyal? That is the beautiful thing with our joy machine – it _always_ works."

"Yeah, but what if Starfleet decides to make a tactical sacrifice in order to defend Federation interests?" Nilz Baris asked anxiously. "I know Kirk wouldn't like it, but there's the one or other admiral who wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice a few pawn to win the game."

"Things like that take time," Marouk replied unshakably. "Headquarters must assemble a meeting to discuss possible actions against us. Sanctions must be authorized… and investigation has to be commissioned… I've studied the Articles of the Federation to the last iota, so I know how long it takes. Until they get to the point where Starfleet is allowed to take any action, we'll have already declared our independence. And we'll have our fighter squadrons from the Orions to defend that independence, too."

"The Federation won't let you get away with that," Baris warned. As a long-time Federation official, he knew that bureaucracy might work slowly, but in the end, it worked very thoroughly.

Marouk waved off his concerns impatiently.

"The Federation won't have any other choice," he said with arrogant self-confidence. "Thimsel isn't an Earth colony any longer. The majority of our population hails from Ardana and from Orion, respectively. And should it come to a legal conflict, Ardana will defend _our_ interests before the Federation Council. After all, we buy them off the superfluous _zienite_ as well as the superfluous Troglytes. High Councillor Plasus is in no position to… Hey, what was _that_?"

Marouk jumped to his feet when hearing the hum of the transporter beam, but too late. Six Starfleet officers materialized in his office, led by a grim-looking Pavel Chekov who seemed as angry as only a very disappointed Russian could be.

"_That_, Governor," Ilia said in a deceivingly friendly manner, "was the end of your grandiose schemes. You'll accompany us to the _Enterprise_, where we'll give you the chance to see the picturesque holding cells."

"You have no authorization for that," Marouk protested. "You can't arrest me on my own planet. _I am_ the highest legal authority on Thimsel!"

"Maybe; but I've got a phaser set to 'kill' and aimed directly at your head," Ilia replied lightly. "_And_ I'm still very upset about the fact that your gorillas tried to break into my quarters. We Deltans take the break of our privacy very personal. I advice you to follow these friendly security guards voluntarily, before I get even more upset and my hand begins to tremble."

The demonstration of Ilia's trembling finger on the trigger of the phaser was so convincing that Marouk indeed found it better _not_ to resist. Still sputtering about the indignity of the whole action, he nonetheless endured without resistance to be grabbed and handcuffed by two burly security officers. They held on both his arms, then one of them hit his belt buckle, and all three of them vanished in columns of sparkling energy.

"Aah, _Meester_ Baris!" Chekov said happily, when he finally could turn his attention to the other occupant of the office. "How kind of you to have vaited for us! I vas afraid that ve'd have to search all five hundred levels for you. That vould have taken a _lot_ of time, and my keptin _hates_ it if his people lag behind. Vould you also have the courtesy to tell me vhere ve can find Commander Decker, Lieutenant Xon and Yeoman Jahma?"

"You have no authorization for this," Baris couldn't think of anything better than to echo Marouk's former protest. "I refuse to deal with officers of lower ranks. You should better be careful; I still have influential friends in the Federation Council."

"I see you're not in most cooperative mood," Chekov shook his head with false regret. "Bad for you, but it von't hold us back for too long. You see, ve have our own vays vith computers. Ensign Sdan, if you vould like to demonstrate?"

The pointy-eared Rigelian took Marouk's abandoned place behind the desk and began to call up security protocols as if he'd worked here all his life. Like most representatives of Vulcanoid species, Sdan was very skilled at dealing with computers, and Starfleet's security training had ensured that such an older model wouldn't cause him any problems.

However, Marouk's central computer was equipped with firewalls and aggressive booby traps, so that the Rigelian had to be awfully quick to avoid alarming the entire security of Aeropolis by mistake. Fortunately, he'd been an A6 level computer specialist already _before_ he joined Starfleet – he'd used to be a so-called Free Agent of the Federation, thank to his extraordinary skills – and having worked for the transport coordination center of the Rigel system had honed his reflexes properly. He detected the virtual 'guard dogs' every time soon enough to be able to override them.

"That's it, Chief," he showed Chekov the security roster. "Our people are being held in the high security cells on Level 443, section 47C."

"Can ve beam in directly?" Chekov asked, his mind working on possible assault strategies already. The Rigelian shook his head in apology.

"Afraid not, Chief. This area is heavily shielded. We have to get there on the pedestrian way, if I may say so."

"Vhere's Team tvo?" Chekov asked.

"Lieutenant Rowe has just reported in from Level 450," Sdan told him. "They're almost through to the shielded area."

"Have they met any resistance?"

"So far none, Chief. However, they still have to get down another seven levels…" Sdan didn't finish the sentence but Chekov got his meaning anyway. He activated his wrist communicator.

"Chekov to _Enterprise_," he called.

"Kirk here," the far-away voice of his commanding officer came through the tiny loudspeaker. "Any news, Mr. Chekov?"

"_Keptin_, we have a problem here," the Russian reported. "The maximum security cells in the holding area are shielded, and Team two is still seven levels away. Can you beam us down from here, as close to the shielded area as possible? They might need our help."

"Give me a moment, I have to check that with Mr. Kyle," after about half a minute of static noise, Kirk spoke again. "Well, Mr Kyle says there shouldn't be any problems with that. He's gonna beam first Team two down to Level 443, and then yours. Stay ready. Kirk out."

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Decker had the feeling that he'd get crazy in the deafening silence of Aeropolis' prison. Shortly after his capturing, a team of security guards – also wearing the grey tunics, knee-high boots and bizarrely ridged helmets of Ardanan police – had brought in Lieutenant Xon and Mohammed Jahma as well. All three of them had been put into separate cells, and considering that there were always guards present, talking wasn't really an option.

An hour or so later, the guards entered Mohammed Jahma's cell. They dragged him out and forced him into one of those man-shaped niches in the wall that were everywhere in the building, even in the security area. The Nigerian tried to resist, but the guards had been apparently chosen for strength, before everything else. As soon as they stuffed him into the nice, the automated cuffs snapped closed around his wrists and ankles, rendering him completely immobile and helpless. The guards then placed the metal headband around his forehead and the machine switched on automatically.

For a while, Mohammed Jahma had visibly struggled against the hypnotic effect of the city-wide broadcast, but then his will broke from one moment to another. His entire body went slack, hanging on his restraints like a rag doll. His usually so animated face became that for the people of Aeropolis so customary, expressionless mask. Decker was gnashing his teeth in helpless anger, but he knew that with protesting he would only achieve to be put into that cursed machine himself.

During all his time – _and_ during the following two hours – Xon had been kneeling on the floor of his cell, hands folded, index- and middle fingers pressed together. It had to be some sort of meditative stance, if his unseeing eyes were any indication; Decker had never seen anything like that. It seemed as if the Vulcan had turned his entire being inward, on a level of utter concentration no mere human could ever home to understand.

Nonetheless, previous experiences with the telepathic "units" of the "New Mankind" had enabled Decker to realize that the Vulcan was up to something. Of course, said previous experience wasn't enough for him to even guess _what_ Xon was planning, and he knew better than break the Vulcan's concentration with something as trivial as simple _asking_.

All of a sudden, one of the guards began to sway, and then collapsed noiselessly. A second one followed suit shortly thereafter. Then a third one. The fourth one moved from his post, approaching the energy barrier in front of Xon's cell with uncertain, reluctance steps. The Vulcan withdrew into himself completely, and though he showed no viable sign of the effort it took him to keep the Troglyte under control, even a telepathically "deaf" person like Decker could feel the faint echo of the incredible mental power that was being unleashed in that very moment. The Troglyte guard, trained to follow orders, never had a chance to resist. He could either shut down the energy barrier or burn to ashes in it.

As expected, basic survival instinct proved to be stronger than any conditioning. With desperate effort, the guard reached out to the control panel, barely able to touch it with his fingertips, and shut the barrier down. After that, he lost balance and fell to his knees with a loud _thud_. But Xon still had to bridge the four metres between the corner of his cell and the exit, and the guard's conditioning must have been without doubt excellent. Even during his fall, he grabbed for his phaser pistol to bring the fleeing prisoner down.

He was only a second or two late, but that little tardiness proved fatal against Xon's lightning-fast Vulcan reflexes. All the guard could see was a blurred shadow, before iron fingers grabbed the point where his neck met his shoulder, and everything went dark. There was no defence against the notorious Vulcan nerve pinch, if executed properly.

Xon let the guard's slack body slide to the floor and shut down the energy barrier of Decker's cell, too, unerringly but efficiently.

"Keep an eye on the entrance," he said, pushing the guard's phaser pistol into Decker's hand. "I must get Yeoman Jahma out of the machine. Being subjected to the broadcast on a permanent basis can make someone develop an addiction in a very short time, or so Commander Uhura said."

He only stopped to collect the weapon of the other guards, then he was at the niche already. He tried to disrupt the cycle, but that didn't seem possible. The machine was apparently programmed _not_ to stop until the "payday" had been fully received. Of course, he could have reprogrammed the whole sequence, given enough time. Unfortunately, time was something they didn't have to waste at the moment.

"I shall have to take some risks here," he said to Decker, "and I cannot even calculate the chances for possible success. Too many unknown factors. But I _have_ to get Yeoman Jahma out of here. He has already been under too much influence."

"Shoot the control panel to pieces," Decker suggested.

"That is exactly what I am planning," Xon replied. "I must point out, however, that the violent interruption of the cycle could send Yeoman Jahma into deep mental shock. There is even an uncalculated chance that he would end up brain dead."

"Better than ending up vegetable than the rest of Aeropolis," Decker said. "At least I'm sure he'd prefer it that way. Do it; I'll take responsibility for the outcome."

"No, Commander," Xon said calmly, "this is one responsibility you cannot take from me. However, I agree with your judgement about the situation. There is simply not enough time to try anything else."

He set the phaser pistol at the highest energy level and fired at the control panel. The acid smoke of burnt plastic and circuitry filled the small room, but the restrains remained firmly in place. Nonetheless, Xon considered the results as partial success, as he couldn't receive the faint vibration of the machine any longer. At the very least, the circle was interrupted.

"The broadcast is disrupted," he said to Decker, "but we shall have to cut him out of the restraints."

"That will be tricky," Decker gave the clumsy, old-fashioned phaser pistols a doubtful look. "I mean, phaser burns on wrists and ankles aren't too dangerous, but I wouldn't like to come anywhere near his head with _these_ weapons. They aren't exactly precision tools."

"Let us free his hands and legs first," Xon suggested. "Perhaps we shall be able to pull him free of the headband then."

That seemed as good an idea as they could think of under the circumstances, so Decker nodded in agreement. Bundling the phaser beam as tightly as possible, they used the pistols as they would have used a regular welder, and cut through the restrains with relative ease. Granted, they gave poor Mohammed Jahma the one or other phaser burn, but that couldn't be helped. As Decker had pointed out, old-fashioned phaser pistols weren't exactly precision tools. But that was what dermal regenerators were for. Once they got back to the _Enterprise_, those burns would be easily healed in sickbay.

Besides, unbroken skin would be of little use for Mohammed Jahma if he was dead. And in order to keep him alive, they needed to escape Aeropolis.

"All right," Xon grabbed the slack body of the security officer, holding him upright with superhuman strength that nobody would have expected from such a slender youngling. "Try to move the headband upright, and I shall try to pull the yeoman downward. Careful, small movements; the band sits tight. Begin now!"

It took them quite a bit of pushing and pulling and dragging, but after a few minutes Mohammed Jahma was finally free, if still unaware of the fact. The abrasions on his forehead, where the headband of the machine had been, were bleeding a bit, but not badly. It was nothing a dermal regenerator couldn't deal with. What concerned Xon a lot more was the yeoman's still unresponsive state.

"I shall have to perform a mind-touch, or we shall never be able to get him out of Aeropolis," he said in concern, after having laid the unconscious man onto the cot in his cell.

"We could try to hack into the city's comm system and have the _Enterprise_ beam us out," Decker suggested, but the Vulcan shook his head.

"We cannot; this area is heavily shielded. I have managed to get a look at the controls when they dragged me down here. We need to get into a different sector, where the transporter can get a lock on us; but for that, we shall need Yeoman Jahma on his feet. We cannot carry him all the way. That would slow us down and make us vulnerable to attacks."

Decker nodded. "Very well. How can I help?"

"Pluck the communicators of the guards and shut them into the holding cells before they regain consciousness," Xon said. "Also, keep an eye on the door while I am… occupied."

"By the way, what have you done with the guards?" Decker asked, while doing as he'd been told.

"I blocked their consciousness telepathically," Xon replied as if _that_ had been the most mundane task in the world. "As they are conditioned _not_ to think independently, it was a fairly easy thing to do."

"In that case you've taken your sweet time to make your move," Decker commented sarcastically, switching on the forcefields in front of the holding cells where he'd placed the unconscious guards.

"I had to consider all other possibilities before forcing myself into the mind of another intelligent being," Xon replied seriously. "Such actions are diagonally opposite to everything I have been taught and trained all my life. This is a philosophical taboo – the inhibition level of Vulcans is very high in such cases."

Decker wasn't entirely certain that he'd really understood the problem, so he thought it would be good to clarify things.

"You mean you needed more than _three hours_ to overcome your inhibitions toward a mental technique that you're capable of performing without breaking a sweat?" he asked incredulously.

"That is correct," the Vulcan replied dryly. "However, I do not expect you to understand the extraordinarily high demands that are made while shaping and training a Vulcan's character. If you will excuse me now… I have to concentrate."

Decker turned away, partly to keep an eye on the door and partly to give them some privacy. Xon sat down on the edge of the cot, seeking with his fingertips the nerve endings in Mohammed Jahma's face and temples. The skin of the Nigerian was surprisingly warm for a human, and slightly rough, as it is often the case with the sons of desert tribes. His dark eyes were open but glared at the ceiling with an empty, lifeless look, unblinking.

Xon steeled himself for the encounter with chaotic, undisciplined human feelings, and slowly lowered his mental shields, seeking out for the human's consciousness.

_My mind to your mind… my thoughts to your thoughts…_

There was no need for words in the intimacy of the mind-touch, nor for complicated forms of social encounters. The two-poled world of ME-YOU gradually expanded to create the shared level of US. Xon didn't aim for a complete mind-meld; he simply tried to reach Mohammed Jahma in that far-away corner of the mental landscape where the human had fled from the aggressive influence of the manipulative broadcast. Tried to lure the man back to reality.

It seemed, though, that that hiding place was very far away indeed. In his desperate self-defence, the human had fled beyond the usual borders of hiding, so that the integrity of the conscious structure that had identified himself as Mohammed Jahma had already begun to come apart. Xon realized that if he didn't act quickly, the human would spend the rest of his physical existence in a self-induced catatonia.

It made things even more complicated that Xon wasn't a trained healer, and that he didn't know the human well enough to build a mental bridge to the man's hiding place based on their personal relationship, which was practically nonexistent. He only knew that Mohammed Jahma hailed from Earth, from a place called Nigeria, and that he was a practicing Muslim who took his faith very seriously.

Xon had never heard more than a few statistics about Nigeria, so waking the man with mental images of home was beyond his possibilities. Nor did he know anything about the man's family or personal interests. The only remaining factor was the religion. Fortunately, while the majority of Vulcans didn't follow any religion as humans would understand it, Xon _had_ studied the Koran in philosophy class, together with other so-called holy books of Terra, and was now searching his eidetic memory for a matching quote that might reach Mohammed Jahma in his deep hiding.

It wasn't an easy thing, but after a while, a few lines from the eighty-sixth _sura_ came to his mind. They seemed to have a vague connection to the current situation, so Xon gathered all his mental strength and projected the message towards the hiding one as if he would release a burning arrow.

For a _very_ long time – it seemed eternity in the timeless intimacy of the mind-touch – there was no answer, and Xon began to fear that he wouldn't be able to reach the human at all. Perhaps they would have to drag the yeoman through the corridors, regardless of his state, and try it again aboard the _Enterprise_, with T'Pel's help, whose ESP-factor was much higher. He was just about to give up and withdraw, when weakly, as if coming from a great distance, he finally "heard" the Nigerian's mental sigh.

_Allahu akbar…_

Xon sent his mental tendrils across that huge, black emptiness, and now he could reach the man who was hovering on the threshold of his hiding place.

_Mohammed, this is me, Xon… Come back with me, the peril is over!_

_The machine…_

_You are not in the machine any longer. We have got you out. Come back with me, we must leave this place as long as we still can._

There was no answer, but the eyelids of the human fluttered briefly, and the light of understanding returned into his glance. He looked at the young Vulcan, who was leaning over him and now slowly pulled back, with amazement.

"You've taken a great risk to bring me back, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "I was nearly gone already."

"I know," Xon replied calmly. "I could barely reach you."

"But why have yon done so?" the Nigerian asked in awe. "I thought Vulcans don't like to touch alien minds."

"Believe me, it was not very… pleasant," the Vulcan replied dryly. "But I could not leave you like that. It was an emergency."

Mohammed Jahma slowly got to his feet, and before Xon could have hindered him, he took the Vulcan's hand and touched it to his forehead in the ancient gesture of gratitude.

"I am in your debt; and so are my sons and their sons till the seventh generation," he quoted the ritual words.

"You owe me nothing," gently but firmly, Xon freed his hand and turned away to regain his inner balance. "I have only done what simple logic dictated me to do."

Mohammed Jahma grinned at this typical Vulcan answer; Decker, though, was getting impatient.

"I hate to interrupt your moment of brotherly bonding," he said, "but we must leave here, _now_! Pick up the weapons and let's find an escape route."

Still a bit shaky on his feet, Mohammed Jahma accepted a phaser pistol from his commanding officer. Xon did the same, right before stepping to the holding area's central control panel and studying the duty roster.

"According to security layout, there must be four more guards in the antechamber," he told them. "We shall have the element of surprise on our side, but not longer than for the first few seconds. The guards are thoroughly trained; with a probability of ninety-six point five two per cent, we shall not have the chance for a second shot."

"We won't have to," Mohammed Jahma said with a shrug. "I'm ambidextrous and well able to shoot in two directions at the same time."

"You'll have to, if we wanna get out of here alive," Decker murmured. "All right, people, let's do it; it's not so as if we'd have any other choice. Yeoman Jahma, you and I will take up position on both sides of that door. Lieutenant Xon, you will open the door and take cover immediately, so that the guards won't be able to shoot you on the spot. They must _not_ be allowed to call in reinforcements or set off the alarm. Ready? Then go!"

* * *

The outbreak happened so quickly that the guards could barely realize what was happening. In one moment, thy were sitting comfortably behind their consoles; in the next moment, the door leading to the holding cells swooshed open, and before they could have reacted, they were sprawled all over the floor, unconscious.

"Do we need to lock them away at all?" Mohammed Jahma asked. "The phasers are set to heavy stun; they'll be out like a light for at least three hours."

"Nonetheless, I prefer them behind a forcefield," Decker replied. "Who knows how long it will take us to reach the _Enterprise_? Lieutenant Xon, can you tell me how far the shielded are reaches?"

"Yes, Commander. If we can believe this display here – and I see no reason why we should _not_ – is this entire sector shielded, probably for the very reason to keep captives from escaping via transporter. We can either try to get to the next level, or to the neighbouring sector. It is your decision, sir."

"I am for the next sector," Decker said after some thought. "Should the _Enterprise_ had sent a rescue team already, they will look for us on the level where they've lost our transponder signal."

"Yeah, but we were still on level 456 when we last reported in to Lieutenant Ilia," Mohammed Jahma warned. "That is thirteen levels above us!"

"Have you been able to set of transponder alarm?" Decker asked.

"Yep," the Nigerian nodded, "but the guards realized what we were doing and took our belt buckles."

"Fortunately, they didn't think of that by me," Decker touched his pre-scan device, "but it won't help us much. _One_ signal is not strong enough to reach the _Enterprise_ through all this shielding material in the very walls. We can only hope that Captain Kirk _has_ already sent out that search-and-rescue team."

"I suggest that we find a place in the next sector where we can at least defend ourselves for a while," Xon said. "Then we activate your transponder signal and wait for help. That is the only logical solution."

"Perhaps we'll be able to find a comm station somewhere, so that we can contact the _Enterprise_ directly," the executive officer said hopefully. But the Vulcan shook his head.

"The communications system of Aeropolis is one monstrous unit," he said. "If we tried to use any comm station, the militia would localize us within seconds and send the guards after us. We are only three people with an additional phaser, Commander. Our choices are limited."

That was only too true, and so Decker agreed that they should move on. Phaser pistols ready, they carefully left the holding area, in search for a proper place where they could hold out until the cavalry arrived.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17 The Silence of the Sirens

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

Like Yeoman Lemli, Technician Thule was originally a human character. I turned him into an Andorian for fun. I like the blue bugs. g

**

* * *

CHAPTER 17 – THE SILENCE OF THE SIRENS **

Once, at the very beginnings of the colony, RA-04 had been the #4 ore processing plant of Thimsel – hence the name. It lay some three hundred kilometres north-east from the only ocean, in the middle of which Aeropolis had been built, and was completely identical to the other ore processing plants, constructed following the same plans. It consisted of six pale silver domes, now already battered by the weather and by corrosion, related to the general pollution of the planet, especially the acid rains; each of these domes was twenty metres high and forty metres and diameter, and each one contained a fully automated ore processing unit. The technicians who coordinated and oversaw the whole work had a small control room built directly under the dome; this room was completely sealed off from the factory halls below, so that the process had no harmful influence on their health whatsoever.

This sort of domed industrial plant was of Tellarite design; only one of the many technical achievements this cantankerous but highly talented race had gifted upon the entire Federation. Lieutenant Garrovick had always wondered how the Tellarites were able to do any precision work with those clumsy limbs of theirs. He'd probably been surprised to hear how often Tellarites asked the same about humans.

Garrovick had been told on the debriefing that on Thimsel all industrial plants and even the experimental farming units had originally been placed under protective domes. The original reason had been to avoid pollution by recycling all industrial waste right within the units themselves. Well, if the galloping greenhouse effect on Thimsel was any indication, something must have gone very wrong with that plan. After all, the colony had managed to destroy the natural environment to a grade that rivalled the pollution on Earth in the late 20th century – and _that_ was no small feat.

This sad fact didn't bother the people who were living in the almost hermetically sealed environment of Aeropolis, of course. At least not those who actually had to work in the mines, that is. But the messings were disturbing, and according to the estimate of Kees Philips, the _Enterprise_'s astrobiologist, if the current rate of environmental destruction was kept up, the planet surface would become completely uninhabitable within the next thirty years.

Well, among other things the _Enterprise_ was here to prevent that from happening, and in the rescue mission for the saving of Thimsel from its own inhabitants, the landing party of Lieutenant Garrovick had a crucial role.

Captain Kirk had dispatched three security teams to the RA-04 plant, with the standing order to disable the supposed operations centre there, including the technicians who were running it _and_ the security forces guarding them. Had thy finished the test, they were to wait for a communications team from the _Enterprise_ that was supposed to modify the continuous broadcast of Aeropolis right at the source.

In theory, it all sounded easy enough. However, the execution of the task promised to be a lot more complicated. According to previous sensor sweeps, at least two hundred people were in the complex. The strong shielding prevented more precise readings; the probes had failed to penetrate it, even from fairly close proximity.

Besides, Garrovick couldn't bring as many troops as he'd have really needed, as two teams had to go to Aeropolis, and a third one, led by Lieutenant Osborne, had to guarantee the safety of the diagnositics- and communications teams aboard the freighter drones. Not to mention that they _had_ to provide at least minimal security aboard the _Enterprise_ as well. Quite frankly, they were running out of security personnel.

Lieutenant Garrovick was well aware of the fact that he'd been given the most difficult task of all team leaders. A sortie like that would be better suited for an experienced veteran like Lieutenant Osborne. Captain Kirk, however, often showed his trust in his young officers' abilities by assigning them to near-impossible tasks. And while Stephen Garrovick _did_ find this flattering, sometimes he wouldn't have minded if Captain Kirk had trusted his abilities just a bit less. He wasn't _afraid_ of responsibility; he just had the uncomfortable feeling that his CO was taking awfully big risks to make it possible for him to gain some command experience.

He was torn from his brooding by the beeping of his communicator. "Osborne to Garrovick."

"Garrovick here," he replied.

"We have the situation aboard the freighter drones under control, sir," Lieutenant Osborne reported. "The… _passengers_ are in an artificial coma and seem to react well enough to the modified broadcast. I can send you sixteen more people if necessary."

"It's more than necessary, Lieutenant, thank you," Garrovick replied, almost giddy with relief. "We'll postpone the action until reinforcements arrive then. Have your people beamed down to these coordinates; we'll make room for them."

"Understood, sir."

"Any news from Aeropolis?"

"The XO and the Vulcan had managed to break out of the holding cells, sir," Osborne informed his greenhorn of a superior officer. "The chief's picked them up and sent them back to the _Enterprise_. However, Teams #1 and #2 have to stay in the city until they've neutralized the operations centre. So, good luck, sir. Osborne out."

After a few minutes, the people dispatched from the freighter drones arrived. They were all armed with heavy phaser rifles and the new personal energy shields. Feeling somewhat more… optimistic about the possible outcome, Garrovick began to hand out assignments.

"Since the shielding plays havoc with both our sensors and the transporter, we'll have to use the Klingon method," he told them matter-of-factly. "Which means: shoot first and don't bother to ask questions at all."

"Is this what they teach on advanced tactical courses in Annapolis nowadays?" the middle-aged, elegantly greying Lieutenant Imamura asked with obvious distaste. He'd already served some thirty-five years in the security section – more years than Garrovick could have called his own.

"That doesn't have to do anything with tactical courses, Mr. Imamura," the young officer replied. "We're hopelessly outnumbered, plain and simple. We don't really have any other choice."

That was most certainly true; true enough for even Imamura, a descendant of samurais, to give in, so that Garrovick could go on with his instructions. The young officer divided his men into six groups, planning to enter all three chains of domes simultaneously from both ends, and then press on towards the centre of the complex. That should have covered all eventualities – theoretically, at least.

"You've got your personal shields; activate them before entering the first dome," he ordered. "They would protect you sufficiently for the next thirty minutes."

"But if we run the shields at full power for thirty minutes, their energy cells will burn out completely, "Yeoman Montgomery warned his superior officer. Garrovick nodded.

"I know," he said, "but frankly, I don't care. Personal shields are useful, but they can be easily replaced. Lives can not."

"Yeah, but thirty burned-out energy cells cost a lot," the yeoman pointed out. "Especially when they take the price off your next salary, sir."

Garrovick shrugged. "I can live with that. Maybe I won't be able to visit Risa any time, soon – so what? However, should my over-economizing cause the death of as much as a single crewman, I could never sleep in peace again. And my sleep is very important to me, Mr Montgomery."

"I do respect that, sir," the yeoman said seriously. "I just wanted to make sure that you're aware of the possible consequences. Such attitude will earn you the respect of the troops – but it can harm your career."

"Perhaps," Garrovick allowed, "But perhaps not. The Garrovicks have served in Starfleet for three generations, and no one of them has ever been a yes-man. They've still done well enough. All right, people, assume your positions. Set phasers at heavy stun and be ready. We'll move in in sixty seconds."

The security officers, their heavy phaser rifles readied, swarmed out to the twice three entrances of the complex. Shortly thereafter short transponder signals reported that the groups had taken in their positions. Despite his fairly convincing show of self-confidence, Garrovick was fighting his panic hard. Had he misjudged their resources, had he made a mistake, due to his inexperience… well, if he had, thirty troops would pay the price.

Yeoman Lemli glanced at his wrist chrono and wiggled his antennae empathically. The sixty seconds were up. Garrovick s stomped down on his nerve-related nausea ruthlessly and hit his belt buckle three times, quickly and hard.

* * *

"We've lost contact with Lieutenant Garrovick's parties, Captain," Uhura reported. "They must have entered the RA-04 complex and are now within its shield." 

"Any news from Chekov's group in Aeropolis?"

"Nothing new, Captain. Lieutenant Xon and Ensign Sdan are combing through the databases of every computer in Marouk's office with the fine-toothed comb to set up a full record of the governor's activities in the recent years. Pavel Andreievich means it's a very boring thing, since the pointy-eared ones won't let him play with the system; otherwise, everything's under control. Moh Jahma has fully recovered, aside from a killer headache and from the nausea, but Dr. McCoy says these symptoms come from the Vulcan mind-touch rather than from the joy machine itself," she added, laughing.

"What about Commander Decker?" Kirk asked, his displeasure evident.

"Apparently, he's… otherwise occupied," Uhura replied diplomatically. Kirk frowned.

"He surely has chosen the worst possible tome to get romantic!"

"I doubt that much romance is involved," Uhura answered slowly. "At least not at the moment. After all, he's managed to talk Ms DuMolin into testimony against governor Marouk, and the will be very helpful, once the actual process starts. Besides, that young woman needs every help she can get. She's been through a lot in the last year; and she's addicted. Right now, Commander Decker is the best person to help her – until a professional therapist can take over."

"You should have studied law, Uhura," Kirk commented, a bit sarcastically. "You'd make a terrific defence attorney."

"I _have_ studied law, Captain," she replied, "among other things. And I used to be the diplomatic assistant of Ambassador Obote on _Two Twilights_, as you know. Had Admiral Noguchi succeeded with his experimental idea, I'd be third in the chain of commend now, and your counselor. You would have to include my suggestions in every important decision."

"Oh, yes, I remember, you were part of the project for potential ship's counselors," Kirk nodded, eternally grateful that the project had been rejected because of the resistance of the commanding officers. He didn't like the idea to be second-asked by some… some _counselor_ every time he made a decision.

"That's all history now, unfortunately; however, my abilities to fulfil the task hasn't changed," Uhura paused because a message came through the com-module in her ear. "It's sickbay, sir. Lieutenant Masters has regained consciousness. She and her baby are all right."

"Well, that's a relief, of course; still, I can't understand why would she come aboard in her condition," Kirk growled. Uhura laughed.

"Pregnancy isn't an illness, Captain. It's the most natural thing on the world. And, if I may say so, the most wonderful there is… Oh!"

"What's it?"

"Lieutenant Osborne is reporting in from Freighter #1, Captain. The diagnostic team has finished its work and is ready to beam back. My team is done, too, but Lieutenant Brent will stay behind a little longer, to monitor the comm system."

"Anything from Garrovick's troops?"

"Not yet, sir."

"How long have they already been in there?"

"For eight minutes, sir."

Kirk gnawed on his thumbnail nervously.

"If they're using the personal shields, they'll have to finish in twenty minutes," he said. "If they need longer… Commander, who's the security officer on duty at the moment?"

"Lieutenant Dickerson, sir."

"Is there anyone else – other than the security officers – capable and trained to handle our weapons systems?"

"Give me a moment, Captain," Uhura consulted the board computer, then she handed Kirk a PADD with a short list of only eight names on it. "These are the only ones, sir."

"That's enough," Kirk nodded. "Order these people to the phaser controls. Everyone else, save from the guards at the holding cells, should beam down and help Garrovick's people."

* * *

The six security troops had managed to gain access to the outer domes without any hindrance. The defenders of the operations centre either hadn't expected any intruders, or the constant shielding of the entrances would have consumed too much energy. The computerized security looks proved no problems at all for Garrovick's well-trained men; they overrode them within minutes. Of course, it was only a matter of time until they'd be discovered and the entire complex set on alert, so they tried to move forward as quickly and noiselessly as possible. Gaining territory was of utmost importance here. 

Lieutenant Garrovick's group consisted of four security officers, a doctor and a computer specialist. The latter was no less than Lieutenant Leslie, formerly an ersatz navigator and even Mr. Scott's aide for a while, during the _Enterprise_'s previous five-year-mission. Nowadays he was the head of computer diagnostics: a well-balanced man in his early forties, with a military-style butt cut. Garrovick was grateful for his presence. Leslie had a calming effect on his nerves, and right now, he really needed that effect.

Although he knew – intellectually – that there were at least two hundred people in the operations centre, the cavernous, domed hall yawning in front of them was empty and dark and eerily silent. It certainly could give an inexperienced officer the creeps. And while Garrovick might have served five years in the security section already, this was his first true command. Small wonder his nerves were just a little bit frayed.

Leslie pulled out a tricorder and muted the acoustic "ready" signal before switching it on.

"Approximately two hundred metres before us, I can register considerably computer activity," he reported quietly. "It seems that we are close to the central server of the entire complex."

"Lifesigns?" Garrovick asked. Leslie studied the readings with a frown.

"Hmmm… the data are unusually diffuse, sir. And the tricorder _is_ functioning correctly. I can only assume that the heavy shielding of the central unit is playing havoc with our instruments."

"Can you triangulate the source of the scattering field?" Garrovick knew he was pushing things, but time _was_ a crucial factor here. Leslie scratched his head."

"Assuming that I'm right in interpreting these data, the control room must be boarding the main corridor, which runs at the right angle to this dome," he said doubtfully. "But I can't be one hundred per cent sure. There are too many unknown factors."

"It doesn't matter," Garrovick said grimly. "We have no other choice. Let's go."

Leslie was already hurrying forward, tricorder in his hand, his eyes glued to the shield, but Yeoman Montgomery, knowing that the engineer wasn't equipped with a personal shield, got hold of his arm.

"Let me take the point, Lieutenant," he said. "It would be too risky for you."

Leslie let him take point and followed him more carefully. He wasn't a fool. The others tried to use the pieces of machinery – covered with years-old layers of dust – as some sort of cover. Not that the machines would be of much use for them; but the cavernous room was depressingly large that it could make one agoraphobic when standing in the middle of it, unprotected. These halls had clearly not been built for personal use. This was supposed to be a production unit, the realm of machines.

From the corridor on their right suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard, echoing loudly in the empty silence. Garrovick whirled around, expecting to see the blank face of a grey-clad Troglyte guard. Instead, he was staring straight into the triangular face of an Orion mercenary – and one armed to the teeth, at that. It was one of the green savages that were specifically bred by their overlords as cannon fodder. They were twice the size of a regular Orion, with the same muscle density due to the higher gravity of their home planet, and generally looked like the alien version of a Sumo ringer. Or they would, if Sumo ringers had green skin and rudimentary scaled protecting their joints.

Fortunately for Garrovick, the Orion was every bit as surprised by the encounter as he was. Besides, Orion mercs were bred for brute strength, not for brains. The moment of stunned surprise was enough for Ensign Tamura to take action. She was so fast that all Garrovick could see was a blurred shadow. In the next moment, the beefy Orion was lying on the floor, his thick neck in an unnatural twist. Not a single hair had been loosened in Tamura's tight bun in the action. She wasn't even breathing any heavier.

Garrovick gave her a short, impressed nod and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Tamura bent down to the Orion, then straightened again, made the unmistakable cot-throat gesture and shrugged in apology.

Garrovick pointed at one of the long-dead machines. Yeoman Lemli nodded and dragged the corpse behind the steel behemoth. It was an impressive sight from such a thin, seemingly fragile being, but Andorians were tough. Garrovick nodded in satisfaction, then he turned to Leslie.

"We have to move on, Lieutenant. Should we run into an organized unit of Orions, we're dead. Our personal shields are little protection against their high-energy disruptors."

"Unfortunately, that's true," Leslie agreed. "The corridor in front of us is currently empty, though – or so I hope."

"Me, too. Let's go!" Garrovick turned to the side and signalled the team to catch up with them.

They walked down the corridor in high alert, watching out for possible enemies all the time. Ensign Tamura sneaked up to Garrovick's left side, moving around with the smooth, deadly elegance of a young tigress. Leslie remained on his right, checking the tricorder readings every other minute.

"At the next fork we must turn to the right," he said in a low voice. "From there, the control centre is barely ten metres away."

All of a sudden, the alarm klaxons began to howl, interrupting his words and echoing from the walls.

"So much for our moment of surprise," Garrovick shouted; whispering wouldn't do them any good now. "Let's move on, people! Tight formation. Cover your backs, and as I've said, shoot first and don't bother asking any questions."

Their group began to run, hoping that they would find some cover. But the Orions had already been alerted and became active. When the team turned to the right at the next fork, about fifty Orions, wearing dark, coverall-like uniforms, came up against them.

Garrovick followed his own advice: he jumped to the side and swept the floor with a wide-fanned phaser beam of his rifle. The others followed suit, and the Orions fell to the floor, stunned, one after another. A few stray disruptor beams were sizzling threateningly but harmlessly on Yeoman Montgomery's personal shield; it held but was weakened considerably. After a minute or so, the last group of four mercenaries were knocked out, and the team could breathe freely again.

"Armed to the teeth," Garrovick noticed in concern. The Orions, as one could expect from professional mercs, had reacted to the alarm with lightning speed. "Destroy the disruptors," he instructed Lemli and moved on, without losing any more time.

When they reached the control room, the Andorian caught up with them again. The explosions in the corridor behind them proved that he'd managed to overload the dangerous and unstable Orion weapons. _Hopefully, that would draw the attention of the guards away from the control centre_, thought Garrovick.

As if answering his thoughts, another team of mercs marched through the doorway of the control room, directly towards them. The Orions opened fire at once. Garrovick let his instincts take over; he jumped headfirst forward, tossing Dr, Sanchez to the ground and out of harm's way. At the same time he felt someone's body slam into his back to do him the same favour.

The deadly energy beams swept over their heads and sizzled harmlessly on the extremely resistant metal wall of the corridor. Garrovick rolled to the side and returned fire, while the yeomen Lemli and Montgomery, rolling to the opposite direction, had the other flank of the Orions under fire. The mercenaries fell under their combined firepower like cut grass. Garrovick rose to his elbow, took a look around him, then he clambered to his feet to help up the person who'd tossed him out of the firing line. His glance fell on the lovely, cherry blossom face of Ensign Tamura.

"Thanks, Keiko," he murmured.

The young woman raised a fine eyebrow and smiled. "It was my pleasure, sir. What now?'

"We need to deactivate the scattering field," Garrovick replied. "Well, Mr. Leslie has to give it a try. The others secure the place."

"That could be tough; this control area has access to four corridors," Lemli warned, while Leslie was already looking for the right console.

As if trying to prove Lemli's words true, another group of mercenaries appeared in one of the corridors, this time accompanied by a unit of the Troglyte militia. The latter ones had only old-fashioned phaser pistols to their disposal, but they attacked the _Enterprise_ troops with such ferocity that Garrovick's men didn't have the time to use their rifles. A furious hand-to-hand combat broke loose.

With a quick decision, Garrovick deactivated his personal shields; it wasn't much use in hand-to-hand combat anyway. Fortunately, the Security Academy had prepared its graduates for situations like that. Every single one of them was trained in at least two or three branches of martial arts.

Nobody could even come close to lovely little Keiko Tamura, though, who'd just thrown against the wall an Orion twice her size, and with the same fluid movement dislocated the man's arms, too. Both of them. Then she looked around for another opponent, without breaking a sweat.

While Garrovick broke a Troglyte's ribs with a well-aimed punch, he saw Dr. Sanchez – a short, wiry, balding man in his mid-fifties – rise to tiptoes and slam his fist like a sledgehammer into a bulky Troglyte's throat. The gut-wrenching noise of breaking cartilage could be heard through the howling of the alarm klaxons and the thumps and clangs of the fighting. _Apparently, anatomical studies pay off_, Garrovick thought, breaking the arm of an Orion who'd failed to catch him from behind, like a dry twig. Green savages bred specifically as cannon fodder might be huge and beefy, but their bone structure had suffered from the centuries-long inbreeding.

All of a sudden, the fighting was over, even though the humming of the phaser rifles could still be heard from afar. The other troops weren't being idle, either. Garrovick let the unconscious Orion fall and took a quick look around. The three members of his team were gasping for air but unharmed, save from a few cuts and bruises. Montgomery whirled around, looking for further enemies, but at the moment, there were none.

"Injuries?" Garrovick asked, breathing heavily.

"Several burns," Dr, Sanchez replied, squatting down next to the fourth member of the security team, a Centaurian ensign. "Ensign Ko'tho's got it really bad. I can give him emergency treatment, but we should get him back to sickbay as soon as possible."

"_That_ depends on Mr. Leslie now," Garrovick said.

"I think I'm done, sir," Leslie told him and pushed a dozen or so buttons and tumbler switches in rapid succession. "Try to make contact now. If communications works, we've got it right."

"Good idea," Garrovick lifted the wrist communicator to his mouth. "Garrovick to transporter room."

"Transporter room, Kyle here," came the answer immediately, followed by a collective sigh of relief from the rest of their team.

"Mr, Kyle, we've got a severely injured man here. Beam him aboard," Garrovick rattled down the coordinates, after having consulted Leslie's tricorder. "Order a trauma team to the transporter room, too. I'm afraid there could be further casualties."

"Understood, sir."

Garrovick waited until the badly wounded Centaurian vanished in the transporter beam, then he contacted to the other team leaders, one after another. As it turned out, every team was fighting somewhere under one of the huge domes. The Orions had a considerable force of highly trained mercs there, backed by the members of the Troglyte militia. It was time to move on.

"Take Zolan's personal shield, Mr. Leslie," Garrovick ordered, "and his phaser rifle. Destroy these controls; we can't allow the Orions to restore the scattering field. We're moving on. I agreed with the other team leaders to meet them at the room with the considerable computer activity."

"About time," Ensign Tamura muttered. "This place is the ultimate rat trap, if I ever saw one."

She peeked around the corner of the corridor they had to take but snatched her head back immediately as a disrupter bream swooshed along, near her ear.

"That won't do it," she declared calmly. "Jerry, give me one of those disruptors!"

Montgomery threw her a disruptor he'd plucked off one of the unconscious Orion mercs. Tamura set the weapon on overload without as much as a wink of an eye. The Security Academy in Annapolis was nothing if not thorough – security officers got to practice with confiscated enemy weapons, too. The warning hum didn't seem to bother her a bit.

"How long till this thing blows up?" she asked calmly.

"Five seconds," Yeoman Lemli replied, his antennae twitching nervously. "Keiko…!"

"Four… three… two…" Tamura counted down, then she threw the disruptor with her left hand in a wide arc, as far into the corridor as she could. The weapon flew at least twenty-five metres, then it hit a metal bulkhead and exploded, amidst the Orions who were running up to attack the _Enterprise_ team.

The detonation shook the entire dome to its foundation; Orion disruptors were ridiculously overpowered weapons. The shockwaves slammed the _Enterprise_ crew against the walls with brutal force. Lieutenant Leslie hit his head on the rim of a console and fell onto the floor, unconscious.

"Heavy concussion and a fractured skull," Dr. Sanchez stated, after a quick tricorder scan. "We're running out of people rapidly, Lieutenant."

Garrovick had Leslie beamed back to the _Enterprise_, then he gathered the rest of his team and urged them to go on as long as the way was still free. They ran out into the corridor. It was blackened by the heat of the detonation. Here and there lay the remains of Orion mercs, torn to pieces by the explosion. Garrovick's stomach churned again, this time from the horror of the sight. The fact that the Orions wouldn't have done anything else with them, given the chance, didn't help a bit.

The fate of two hundred thousand humans, Troglyte labourers and female Orion slaves depended on the success of this mission. The defenders of the operations centre were pirates, mercenaries and slavers. And yet Garrovick felt miserable about having had them massacred. He asked himself whether having his own command was really worth the nightmares he was going to have for a long time from now on.

But this wasn't the time for brooding. They had to move on. Following the directions given by Lieutenant Leslie before his injury, they reached the main corridor designed to lead to the central dome. They crossed two further large halls without any incident, but the third one – their ultimate goal – was sealed by a massive snap door. Garrovick raised his rifle, aimed at the door and fired, but nothing happened.

"Heat-resistant!" he realised angrily. "Also very thick, it seems. Dammit, we need a good electro mechanic. Who's used to deal with complex locking mechanisms?"

"Let me give it a try, sir," a new voice replied.

Lieutenant Imamura's team had arrived from the opposite direction. Engineering Technician 1/C A'ziz Thule, a middle-aged Andorian, pushed his rifle in the hand of one of his team-mates and crunched down in front of the door. He took some small instrument out of his tool belt, tore off a decorative panel in the inner arch of the doorway and gave the mess of circuits and microprocessors a concerned look.

"By the subterranean rivers," he swore in the characteristic, weak voice of his kind. "A complicated matter."

"Mr. Thule…" Garrovick urged, because from a short distance rough voices could be heard, growing louder as the people whom they belonged – presumably another group of Orions – approached. If Thule didn't manage to open the door soon, another dogfight was inevitable.

"I know, sir," the Andorian replied nervously, inserting a few hair-thin messing filaments into the electronic chaos.

The whole thing took way too long for Garrovick's comfort.

"Take cover and be ready," he ordered his men, then he glanced at Imamura in despair. "Lieutenant…"

"I can't help you, sir," the elderly Japanese officer replied, after having taken a look at the open panel. "This is a technology I'm not familiar with." He turned to his men. "All right, people, spread over the place. Lemli, Montgomery: take up position on the other side. Howard, Hadley, Evans: come over there. Tamura, you're with me. We'll give the Lieutenant and Mr. Thule cover, so stay sharp!"

"Mr Thule…" Garrovick murmured in a pained tone.

"I need a little more time, sir," the technician replied without locking back.

"We don't _have_ the time!" Garrovick reminded him, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, but his nerves were fried already.

"Lieutenant," Dr. Sanchez interrupted calmly, although he couldn't quite hide his concern, "he won't be able to do it in time, that's all. We must retreat and look out for another way before it's too late."

Imamura shook his head grimly. "It _is_ already too late, doctor."

Thule became a shade of so pale blue that it almost seemed white. His knobbly antennae were trembling with nervosity. He picked another tool from his belt, did something with a few circuits, and then pushed a tumbler switch.

The blast door opened.

Behind them, the sound of running feet could be heard. Angry and triumphant yells echoed in the corridor. Garrovick didn't care; the only way still open for them was forward. He practically stumbled into the central dome, the walls of which were covered with control panels, with hundreds of blinking lights. The others followed him. The disruptor beams sizzled on the doors that were automatically snapped closed behind them but couldn't harm them.

Inside the control room, ten to fifteen Orions were working at the consoles. Garrovick stunned some of them with a widely-fanned phaser beam, but others were already too close for him to use his rifle a second time. He punched in the direction of his attackers in a rather uncertain manner, just to keep them at distance somehow. Unfortunately for him, his fist slipped off the hard leather west of the Orion. In the next moment, he felt hot pain in his shoulder from the twenty centimetres long knife that had been rammed into it, rendering him helpless and nearly unconscious, too.

A sharp, hard-pitched yell shook him awake from the momentary numbness. He saw the quiet, polite, Imamura practically leap into the ear and wipe away his attacker with a bone-breaking kick. With the same momentum, Imamura somersaulted over his opponent, landed on his feet and placed a paralyzing punch upon the sensitive ganglions of another Orion's solar plexus.

"Thank you, Mr. Imamura," Garrovick pressed a hand on his injured shoulder to stop the heavy bleeding but without the desired effect. "Tell me, where can one learn things like that?"

Imamura gave him a pitying look, like a wise grandfather would a silly but beloved grandson.

"_You_ would never be able to learn it, sir," he said. "This particular technique requires from the fighter to be _short_."

Garrovick had to laugh, despite his pain. Indeed, he was at least fifteen centimetres taller than Imamura, if not more. A man could acquire a great deal by sheer willpower, but changing his own height was _not_ one of those things.

In the meantime, the fight for the control centre had ended. The Orions were lying unconscious all over the place. In the huge dome only the humming of the control panels could be heard.

"Mr. Thule, see that the doors remain blocked," Garrovick ordered. "Mr. Imamura, call the _Enterprise_. Have all landing parties beamed back aboard, save ours, and tell the captain that the comm experts can beam down now."

"You should return to the ship, too,' Dr. Sanchez warned, but Garrovick shook his head… and regretted it immediately, nauseated by the pain and the blood loss.

"This is my mission, doc… and my responsibility. Can't you stop the bleeding? I'm beginning to feel dizzy…"

"If only I could inject some common sense into all these wannabee heroes!" Sanchez added a few particularly creative Spanish curses while quickly and efficiently cleaning and bandaging Garrovick's wound. Then he gave the young man a double dose of stimulants to keep him somehow on his feet until the mission was over.

In the meantime, Imamura had called the _Enterprise_, and a few moments later the familiar humming of a transporter beam could be heard under the great dome. Lieutenant Palmer arrived with Ensign Freeman, Dr. Noël and a lot of strange-looking instruments.

"We'll need about fifteen minutes to have everything installed here," Palmer told Imamura, glancing at Garrovick's pale face in concern. "Can you hold the dome that long?"

"Theoretically, we could hold it for fifteen _years_, if necessary," Imamura assured her. "Only the phaser cannons of a ship like the _Enterprise_ would be able to cut through these doors; they've been made of collapsed titanium. Go on, do your job – you're perfectly safe. And the sooner you're done, the sooner can we transport Lieutenant Garrovick to sickbay. He won't move until everything's finished here."

Palmer shook her head in fond exasperation but didn't waste any more time. She and her helpers went to work with practiced efficiency, and while they couldn't finish the installation in fifteen minutes, they did it in eighteen in any case.

"What use are these things exactly?" Imamura inquired.

"We've taken over control of the comm system," Dr. Noël explained. "First we'll send on a frequency that stimulates the sleep centre of the listeners. Then we'll recalibrate the entire system and take the specific frequency that makes people feel _good_ while listening to their joy machine out of the original broadcast. The folks will still get a certain stimulation to make withdrawal easier for them in the long run, but at least their addiction won't be supported any longer."

"That sounds good," Imamura allowed, "but what about the mercenaries still hiding somewhere in this complex? I'm sure they're not online at the moment… if they were ever subjected to the machine at all."

"For them, we've prepared a little surprise, "Lieutenant Palmer handed small earplugs to everyone. "Out these filters in your ears, for your own protection. We're gonna bombarding the entire complex with ultrasound waves so that the mercs still here will go deaf in a second and stay unconscious for quite some time. Orions have fairly sensitive ears, it's said, but the whole thing is painful for humans as well."

"Your imaginativeness knows no boundaries," Imamura said with a respectful bow.

"I'm afraid I can't rightfully accept the praise for this particular idea," Liv Palmer replied, blushing a little. "In fact, we've copied the method Dr. Sevrin knocked out the whole _Enterprise_ crew, back at Stardate 5832.3. I've modified it a bit, that's all."

"Good Starfleet officers learn from their own mistakes," Imamura quoted the old platitude smiling. Palmer nodded.

"In that particular case, there was a _lot_ to learn from, I'm afraid," she answered. "Well, let's see how well we've learned. Are you ready, people?"

Everyone nodded. Palmer switched on a small instrument, and dozens of hiding Orion mercs collapsed all over the complex in blinding, white-hot pain.

It seemed that Starfleet officers were very good at learning from their past mistakes indeed. Governor Marouk's centre of operations had fallen.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18 Aftermath

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

Lieutenant Areel Shaw was the prosecuting attorney in the court-martial of Kirk for the assumed death of Benjamin Finney, in 2267. She'd also been romantically linked with Kirk five years earlier, regardless of which she maintained her professional integrity and presented a strong case against him. See: "Court-Martial".

The configuration of the security deck is based on the data given in "Mr. Scott's Guide to the Enterprise" by Shane Johnson. My heartfelt thanks to Akeel Ahmad for answering my stupid and naïve questions about Islamic traditions and law. I hope I interpreted his answers right.

**

* * *

CHAPTER 18 – AFTERMATH**

Ten minutes later, the RA-04 processing plant was almost completely silent. Unconscious Orions and Troglytes were lying scattered all over the corridors. The modified broadcast was running in an automated endless-loop from the computer centre. Another security team arrived, led by Lieutenant Rowe; they went through the entire complex with the fine-toothed comb, picked up the now harmless defenders and sent them into one of the side domes that had been destined as a transit prison, until Starfleet would send reinforcements.

"What is going to happen with Marouk and his cronies?" Garrovick asked. He didn't like the fact that he'd been ordered bed rest for at least twenty-four hours, but trying to argue with Dr. McCoy about it was of no use.

"The Orions will be sent directly to Rehab Colony 17," his visitor, Liv Palmer, explained. "The Captain has asked for a prison ship, since we don't have enough holding cells aboard. As for the governor and Nilz Baris, they're going to have their trial on Minerva."

"Minerva?" Garrovick repeated with a frown. "I can't remember having heard of that world."

Liv Palmer laughed, and Garrovick was so caught up in that sight that he didn't really care where would the governor and his fellows-in-crime have to stand trial. Only Liv's laughter counted, her sky blue eyes, the pale Scandinavian gold of her hair – and that he'd survived this mission and could be with her again.

Liv, however, didn't want to leave him clueless.

"Ever heard of Starbase 11?" she asked.

Garrovick rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said. Starbase 11 is the administrative centre of the entire sector, after all. If I remember correctly, Commodore Mendez is its commanding officer."

"And Lieutenant Areel Shaw is the Starfleet JAG officer assigned to the Starbase," Palmer added. "She's good; she'll manage to get a proper sentence against those guys, of that I'm sure. Oh, and by the way, Minerva is the asteroid on which Starbase 11 is built. It's just so that nobody remembers the _asteroid_'s name, because the Starbase is the only important thing on it."

"I see," Garrovick pondered over that fact for a moment. "And what about the inhabitants of Aeropolis?"

Palmer turned serious again. More than serious – sad, actually.

"That," she said, "is going to be a long and arduous healing process."

* * *

"We've examined a representative percentage of Aeropolis' population, and I can be reasonably sure that all those who haven't lived on Thimsel for longer than three years can be healed – _unless_ they've received a direct and complete conditioning," Dr. McCoy explained, a few days after the prison ship had transferred the convicts to the rehab colony. "The doctors of the hospital ship that has come the day before yesterday will continue the examinations, of course, researching everyone's medical history, but in general, they agree with me."

"That means no hope for the Troglyte workers and their Orion wives, then," Jasmine alFaisal said in sorrow. "And even less for the original colonists. How are they supposed to deal with that fact?"

"It will be hard; but eventually, they will accept their situation, "H'R'Krsna said. He'd returned to the _Enterprise_ to participate in the last mission briefing. "But perhaps _my_ people can help. If the brains of the colonists have become dependant on vibrations, the problem might be solved with the help of cranial implants."

"That wouldn't change a thing," Nurse Chapel said, but Krsna shook his head.

"On the contrary, Ms Chapel. That would be based on the same principle as our own crystal implants," he pointed at his temple. "Or do believe we feel like some sort of cripples, just because the implants help us focus our PSI-powers?"

"Could you arrange this kind of help for the people of Thimsel?" McCoy asked, galvanized by the chance to heal.

The Denebian tilted his head to the side with a quick, jerking, slightly lizard-like move; it was the equivalent of a nod by his kind.

"It's in our best interest to have peace and order in this sector," he said. "Assuming that my government chooses to allow the colony to continue its existence. But even if we have to leave K'rta 2, we'll offer our help to the colonists here."

"I'm sure the Federation will appreciate your help in this matter, Ambassador," Kirk said. "Are you still determined to remain on K'rta 2?"

"Yes, Captain," Krsna replied. "You see, I'm a peace-maker. That's what I have a certain talent for, what I've been trained for. And the future of our colony is by no means safe yet. They'll need my help."

"All right," Kirk said. "Now that it seems we might be able to get the situation of the hopeless cases under some kind of control, what about the rest? The ones who still have hope to be healed?"

The doctors present exchanged uncomfortable looks, as if waiting for each other to speak.

"I suggest that we transfer them to Elba II, "Dr. Noël finally said. It was her particular field of expertise, after all.

"To Elba II?" Decker exclaimed. "To a closed colony for insane criminals? You gotta be kidding, doc! We can't just discharge Danielle – or all the other people, for that matter – to a hellhole like that!"

"It seems to me that your information is a little outdated, Commander," Xon intervened calmly. "The last patient of that kind has left Elba II more than three years ago. In the meantime, Governor Cory has received permission to turn the place into a highly sophisticated psychiatric clinic – and a colony for patients who wish to stay there after they have been healed."

"Why would anyone wish to stay there if they don't have to?" Decker asked in honest bewilderment.

"Some of the patients, even though healed, do not feel that they belong to so-called normal society anymore," Xon explained simply. "I was told that a surprisingly great number of them have expressed the wish to stay and work on the building of the colony."

"I've worked on that project for the last two years, before I returned to the _Enterprise_," Dr. Noël added. "You can relax, Will; Danielle is going to be in the best possible hands there."

"Donald Cory is a good, decent man," Kirk, who'd known the colony leader for years, nodded. "He's got a heart as big as the entire sector around Elba II. The only thing that ever counted for him was the well-being of his patients… sometimes even at the cost of his own well-being."

"Starfleet Medical should never have entrusted a penal colony to him," McCoy commented. "He had too much compassion with the people who were sent there. Small wonder that Garth and his allies could turn that against him. He's a born healer; being a jailer was not his thing. I'm glad that he can live and work according his true vocation now."

"But one still can only live on Elba II in domed habitats," Decker argued. "The planet's atmosphere is so toxic that it kills every living thing within five minutes."

"Only if they are humanoid or breathe oxygen," Xon corrected. "But in any case, it is a temporary situation. The terraforming of the planet has been going on for three years. According to schedule, the atmosphere should be breathable for humans within another two years."

"Besides, it's Ms DuMolin's decision anyway," Dr. McCoy added. "She hasn't done anything wrong, so nobody can send her to a clinic against her will."

* * *

After the debriefing, Chekov took the "fire ladder", a security ladder that led from the bridge directly to his own realm, the B-deck, to check on the state of the holding cells. Theoretically, this deck was utilized as a temporary holding area for persons under incarceration who had just entered or were preparing to leave the ship. Those to be held aboard ship for more than six hours were transferred to the main brig on G-deck, only transferred back three hours before departing the _Enterprise_. Accordingly, Marouk and Nilz Baris were sitting in the high security cells in the main brig at the moment. But Chekov didn't want to take risks, so he wanted to check the temporary cells in advance. They were going to reach Minerva in four days – five at most, depending on their travelling velocity – and he wanted everything to be ready.

He entered his office where Lieutenant Dickerson was on command duty of the security deck. To his surprise, the yeoman on duty was Mohammed Jahma.

"I thought Dr. McCoy had prescribed light duty for you," he said.

The Nigerian shrugged. "I'm not overextending myself by staring at the security monitors, chief. Besides, it was a particular pleasure to escort Governor Marouk to the brig."

"He seemed to like you just as much as you like him," Chekov commented. "Was it because your torrid little affair with his daughter? I thought you were married."

"I am," the Nigerian grinned, "but only twice. According to Islamic law, I've got the right to take two more wives."

"Are you planning to marry Marouk's daughter, then?" Lieutenant Dickerson asked; when he was able to close his mouth first, that is.

Mohammed Jahma laughed. "Oh, no, I'm not noble – or rich – enough for her."

"That didn't hinder her to flirt with you, or so I heard," Chekov said, not really understanding the whole thing.

The Nigerian shook his head. "Oh, no, Chief, I never touched her. According to the teachings of my faith, adultery is a sin, for which I could be tossed out of the _Ummah_ – the collective body of believers. I would never risk that. Besides, I love my wives and would never cheat on them. I was just keeping an eye on Miss alFaisal, as the XO had ordered."

Chekov and Dickerson exchanged disappointed looks – they were both hoping to hear some saucy gossip – then Chekov called up next day's duty roster to plan a rotation of jail duty in advance.

* * *

"I'm willing to go to Elba II, Will," Danielle DuMolin rose to her elbow and smoothed the matted blond hair back from Decker's forehead. "In fact, I'd like to go. You can't imagine what it feels like, having this… this foreign _thing_ in my head. It's like an insatiable monster, always ready to attack, to tear my mind to pieces. I can't go on living like this… not with you, not with anyone else – not even alone."

"But we've just found each other again!" Decker argued, his heart sinking.

"And we shall find each other again," Danielle promised seriously. "We shall always find together again. You know where I shall be, and if they can heal me, you can come and fetch me – assuming we shall still feel the same for each other."

"Why shouldn't we?" Decker asked in honest surprise. "We've waited so long for the chance to be together… do you really believe that e new separation would make us grow apart, after all this time?"

"I don't know," Danielle replied. She lay back next to him and stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. "Life can be… unpredictable sometimes, Will. There are no guarantees for the future."

"But I still love you!" Decker exclaimed, desperate to hold on to her, to his old dream. Danielle smiled tiredly.

"I love you too, Will. But sometimes it's just not enough. Times change, and we change with them… sometimes in such a profound way that we can't fulfil the expectations of those whom we love any longer."

"Our reunion has far exceeded my expectations," Decker declared dramatically, and Danielle laughed – for the first time since aforementioned reunion.

"Flatterer!" she said. "But believe not that it would solve all our problems automatically. You still see me as the frightened young girl who was so dependent on your help it wasn't even funny. In a way it's perhaps still true. But I've changed, too, and you'll have to get used to that. We need to let things proceed on their own."

"I know," Decker sighed. "My life has changed a lot, too, since I became First Officer of the _Enterprise_. I haven't asked for this job, but since I have it now, I'll have to prove that I can do it; and sometimes it seems the job swallows my entire life," he paused, and then he asked hesitantly. "Will you wait for me anyway?"

Danielle smiled at him. "You know I will."

"I hope so," Decker rolled to his side and pulled her closer. "Come here. I need something to remember."

* * *

H'R'Krsna, Special Emissary of Deneb II., had to face a similar kind of disappointment at the same time.

"So I can't even hope to talk you into coming to K'rta 2 with me?" he asked for what seemed the sixteenth time (at the very least) and once again, Nancy Wong shook her head firmly, albeit in a friendly manner.

"I'm very sorry, Krsna. I've enjoyed your company, but let's face it: for me, as a human, life on a Denebian colony wouldn't be the right thing – aside from certain… _biological_ incompatibilities. Besides, I love my work too much to give it up right at the beginning of a new five-year-mission."

"Does this mean that you prefer working aboard the _Enterprise_ to that which I could offer?" Krsna asked, clearly a bit offended.

"Yes, I do," Wong replied, more impatiently now. "We had a good time together, but you're certainly not the love of my life. I don't even consider giving up for you everything that's dear for me: this ship, my work, my friends, my family and my little son on Nanking… everything. It would be a futile effort anyway – I could never match your lifestyle; or the demands of a reptilian society. Not even if our genes were compatible, which they are _not_."

"Is that your last word, Nancy?" Krsna asked, still not quite willing to accept the rejection. His face mirrored that deep blue sadness again that could make Wong scream, both with laughter and out despair.

"The very last," she took his arm and gently but firmly escorted him out. "Good luck, your excellence. Have a good life on your new home planet."

"He's a very persistent man," T'Pel commented matter-of-factly.

Unbeknownst to the ambassador, she'd been in the dining cubicle of Wong's quarters all the time. Krsna had stumbled into the middle of their Thursday afternoon tea that had become something of a tradition since the beginning of the journey.

"I'd rather say 'brick-headed'," Wong replied and sat down to the table again. "He could be really burdensome at time."

"Why, then, have you got involved with him in the first place?" T'Pel inquired. Wong smiled.

"Well, most of the time he was fairly charming… and it has been an interesting experience anyway. I like new experiences; they can be quite… _informative_. So, just to your information: Denebians really _do_ have a forked tongue. And a surprisingly long one."

In time-honoured Vulcan tradition, T'Pel managed to miss the hidden joke. She tilted her head to the side in mild confusion.

"I have already known that, Chief Wong," she said. Wong laughed quietly.

"Yeah, but you knew that from your databases," she pointed out. "_Me_, on the other hand, have learned it from first-hand experience. And _that_'s quite the difference, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." In pure theory, T'Pel understood, of course, the meaning of Wong's hint. She just couldn't understand why it was supposed to be so funny. So she decided for a tactical retreat and changed the topic. "I have also decided to face a new experience."

"Oh?" Wong said with interest. "Which one?"

"I shall learn Chinese." Seeing Wong's surprise, T'Pel felt that she owed her an explanation, so she continued. "The language offers a fascinating versatility and the letters posses a high degree of aesthetic harmony. Aside from that aspect, I might understand you better by making myself familiar with the language you have grown up with."

For a moment, Wong was too touched to answer. She blinked several times before she was able to say anything. She didn't want to embarrass her Vulcan friend with an emotional outburst – but it was hard to hold back.

"Is it so important for you?" she finally asked. "Understanding me, I mean."

"Vulcans prefer _not_ to discuss friendship openly, as it is a highly private matter," T'Pel replied calmly. "But it is of utmost interest for us nonetheless."

* * *

During the following week the reorganization of the Thimsel colony reached its final stage. The hospital ship had picked up those who still had hope for healing and transported them to various planets with the proper medical institutes to treat them. An entire wave of Tellarite ships had arrived, full of construction workers and supplied. Some of them went on straight to Gartov to help with the building of the colony there, others remained on Thimsel and tried to repair the damage that the extensive mining had caused.

A shipload of Andorians had also been dispatched from their homeworld to take over Aeropolis and dismantle the city-wide surveillance devices and take the "joy machine" to pieces no larger than a circuit each. They were given the city-tower in exchange for operating it and for supervising the colonists and Troglyte workers within who couldn't be healed anymore. The tough insectoid metabolism of Andorians was better suited to deal with the effects of the severe environmental poisoning, even though the Andorians had chosen to live in Aeropolis until the worst effects would subdue to a lower level.

Another ship had brought Denebian elders to K'rta 2 to discuss the future of the colony. _That_ promised to be a long and bitter debate, which – according to Krsna – might cause shockwaves within Denebian society for decades to come. But this was something the Denebians had to clear among themselves, and for their part, both Kirk and Colonel Tigh were glad that they _hadn't_ been asked to mediate. Reptilian mentality was simply too… _alien_ for humans.

When all the big diplomatic issues had been dealt with, there only remained _one_ thing for Kirk to take care of. One thing that didn't make him happy, truth be told. But it couldn't be avoided, so he decided to deal with it as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

"Number One," he said to Decker, "I need to talk to you. In _private_." He looked around. "Take the comm, Uhura, this won't be long."

As soon as they reached Kirk's office, the captain sat down behind his desk and activated the recording device.

"Commander," he said, "I have to evaluate your first command performance, and I must tell you, that – unlike with Lieutenant Garrovick's – I'm _not_ happy with it. "I'd sent you down to Aeropolis for a simple surveillance mission, and what have you done? You let your feelings for Ms DuMolin distract you and endangered our entire mission. You let yourself be captured, and that fact led to the capturing of Lieutenant Xon and Yeoman Jahma, resulting in a severe risk for Yeoman Jahma's mental health. Do you have anything to say to your defence?"

"No, sir," Decker replied, standing upright and very stiffly.

"Do you have any explanations for your behaviour?" Kirk asked.

"Yes, sir," Decker answered stiffly; "but no excuse."

"That's right, Commander; there _is_ no excuse for acting like a raw first-year cadet," Kirk was fighting very hard against his own rising temper. "I've chosen you as my executive officer, Will, because I hoped that – despite your inexperience – you have what it takes to do the job and to act in a responsible manner. Apparently, I was mistaken. Now, do you have any suggestions what the hell should I do with you?"

Wisely, Decker withheld any comment he was sorely tempted to make. After all, Captain Kirk's record wasn't exactly spotless when it came to spontaneous (and sometimes irresponsible) behaviour. But you didn't say something like that in the very face of your commanding officer. Not when you still wanted a career in Starfleet.

So he kept his mouth shut, hoping that the waves will smooth over eventually. Besides, his commending officer was right. He _had_ acted like a lovesick teenager, without thinking, without considering the possible risks. All he'd been able to think was Danielle. He could consider himself lucky that his team-mates had been so understanding. A complaint from Xon or Mohammed Jahma – or both – could have had more dire consequences than just the wraith of the captain.

"Well," aforementioned captain said with a weary sigh, "It's a moot point now, isn't it? I've asked for you. I'll have to deal with you. There will be a reprimand in your file, Commander, and don't count on a promotion any time soon. Dismissed."

Decker saluted, turned on his heal sharply and left the captain's office. All things considered, he'd come out of the whole mess relatively unharmed, he judged. And the price wasn't even too high for finding Danielle again.

In his office, Captain Kirk contacted the bridge.

"Uhura, clear us for departure with Ops in Aeropolis," he ordered, "and tell Starfleet Command that we're heading for Elba II. My full report will be composed and sent to Headquarters within twelve standard hours."

"Aye, aye, sir," Uhura replied. "Shall I put the ship on departure alert already?"

"Please do," Kirk said. "I want to leave this place as soon as possible. We've nothing else to do here."

Uhura acknowledged the orders and broke the connection. Kirk leaned back in his armchair heavily, wondering when had he become too old for understanding the folly of youth. One thing was certain: he was _not_ willing to allow his young officers to get away with such unprofessional performance.

Not even if he hadn't been much better in his youth, either.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19 Epilogue

**THE LOST YEARS**

**by** **Soledad**

**EPISODE 01: THE JOY MACHINE**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

The former Yeoman Tina Lawton was the very young crewmember turned into a lizard in "Charlie X". Both Elba II and Governor Donald Cory featured in "Whom Gods Destroy".

**

* * *

EPILOGUE**

Elba II was vastly different from the unfriendly, hostile world it had been during Kirk's previous visit. Granted, the atmosphere of the Mars-sized planet was still poisonous, so that people still needed the domed habitats to survive. But – thank to the tireless work of the terraforming teams that had been laboured here for years – deep in the oceans the first buds of life were stirring already, and according to the plans, due the artificially accelerated evolution Elba II would be fully hospitable within a decade or two.

Donald Cory, the colony leader, introduced the _Enterprise_ officers to the terraformers who were currently working on this brave project, and he described the next steps of the enormous work.

"Dr. Marcus means that we can expect the first indigenous plants in five or six years," he explained with obvious joy. "Imagine this, Jim: we're going to have a flora matching the specific circumstances of our planet. They'll help us to turn this lifeless slab of rock into an actual, living world!"

"Dr. Marcus?" Kirk repeated in surprise. "As in Dr. _Carol_ Marcus?"

Cory nodded. "The one and only. She's the best in her field. Do you happen to know the lady?" His twinkling eyes revealed that he wouldn't be surprised, had the answer be _yes_.

"We used to know each other," Kirk replied slowly, "but that was ages ago."

"She'd regret not having met you," Cory said. "But she's attending to a conference on Deneva right now."

"I doubt that she'd shed any tears over the loss," Kirk mumbled. "We've both changed a lot since then."

Donald Cory, on the other hand, hadn't changed much since their previous encounter. His already thin hair had perhaps become even thinner, and there might be a few more wrinkles carved into his broad, benevolent Asian face, but the joy of life and natural optimism were radiating from him just like they always had. In medical circles was often mentioned that the best therapy on Elba II was the personality of its governor, and once again, Dr. McCoy felt this rumour confirmed.

The building housing the clinic had changed a lot, though. The original cells had been put down, their walls broken through, in order to create spacious, comfortable quarters for the patients. The personnel – mostly Vulcans and Deltans now – wore the usual blue coveralls with the emblem of a doe released from a protective hand like in other similar facilities, but the whole institute reminded more of a spa already than of a psychiatric clinic. The sight reassured Decked a bit that Danielle might enjoy her stay here, as much as it was possible.

* * *

After Governor Cory had given his visitors the grand tour, he called in one of his assistants, a very young, blonde woman – she couldn't be older than 20-24 years – to take Danielle under her wings. As a witness in an important trial, she was given special treatment. The other patients were entrusted to a couple of Vulcan nurses, whose calm competence stood above any doubts, and they showed them to their assigned quarters.

At the sight of the governor's assistant Uhura, who had accompanied Kirk on this visit to discuss the nature of the conditioning with the therapists, raised her head abruptly in surprise.

"Tina?" he asked uncertainly. "Yeoman Tina Lawton?"

"Dr. Bettina Lawton, actually," the young blonde woman replied with an apologetic smile. "I've just achieved my degree as a therapist."

"I've often asked myself what might become of you after you left Starfleet," Uhura said. "You were so terribly young then, it's a miracle that you've been able to deal with the traumatic events so well."

"It wasn't _that_ easy," Dr. Lawton replied seriously. "But in the end, I think I'm glad everything happened the way they did. I couldn't have come too far in Starfleet anyway – there was nothing I'd have been particularly good at. Now I have an interesting job, I can help people to deal with their traumatic experiences, I have a wonderful boss with a heart of pure gold," she added, smiling at the embarrassed, elderly governor with love, "and soon I'll have a beautiful home planet, too. What else could I possibly wish for?"

"What about family?" Uhura asked, remembering how desperately the young yeoman had once looked for someone to belong to.

Dr. Lawton shrugged. "I'm still very young… I have time. Until then, these people are my family. I'm needed here – and that feels really good."

* * *

Dr. Noël and Will Decker accompanied Danielle to her quarters. Those were nice enough, with a bath, a bedroom and a cosy little living room, the arched window of which looked at bizarrely shaped rock formations surrounded by whirling green dust.

"Right now it looks like a lifeless desert," T'Nira, the Vulcan healer who was spending her practical year on Elba II, nodded towards the not overly inviting sight. "But these rocks will be full of life in a few years. The caves already house hundreds of bacteria tribes that are busy preparing the soil for the near future, when there will be regular air to breathe. It is a shame that I shall no longer be around to see it – it will, no doubt, be a fascinating sight."

With that, she and Dr. Noël left the room to discuss the details of Danielle's therapy with Dr. Lawton. Danielle went to the window and looked out.

"In a few years," she murmured. "I might still be here to se Elba II turn into a garden. Dr. McCoy's told me that healing is going to be a slow process. I wonder if I'll still be the same Danielle you wanted to marry all those years ago."

"You mustn't give up hope," Decker chided her gently.

"I do not," she replied. "I do want to lead a normal life again, one day. But that will take years upon years, and I don't want you to tie yourself down to me."

"We're still engaged," Decker reminded her. She nodded.

"Theoretically, yes, we still are. I don't refuse the possibility out of hand that we might find a way together again. But you mustn't bind yourself right now – and I most certainly don't want you to do so out of pity."

"This has nothing to do with pity!" Decker protested.

Danielle gave him a strangely compassionate smile.

"Of course it has," she replied, "it always had, one way or another. But that's all right, Will. Go, lead your own life, follow your own way. When we can be reasonable sure what's to become of me – and if you still insist – we can speak about a shared future again. Deal?"

"Deal," Decker laughed and hugged her. "Take care of yourself, _chérie_."

"Nothing can happen to _me_ here," Danielle replied. "But _you_'ll need to be careful out there. Will you come and see me sometimes?"

"If I may, I will," Decker promised.

"I'd like that," she kissed him, and then pushed him away. "And now go. Don't make your captain wait for you."

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 1996-06-16


End file.
